


That Happened

by BookofLife



Series: I Found [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: But I was bored and without my saved work, F/M, I Don't Even Know, I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up To No Good, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I wrote it in a day, What Was I Thinking?, and so I wrote this when the computers were done at my job, and this happened, judge lightly please, olicity - Freeform, save microsoft word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: What could have happened 2.23 (and because I am absurd).





	That Happened

**Author's Note:**

> The title is more about how this fic came about: me bored and without access to the relevant systems at work = a one-shot I can't work on past what I already wrote. So, if it's not as detailed as you are used to my work being, I'm sorry.  
> This is also an apology for the lack of updates lately. My mum's been ill but she'd on the mend and so I can now concentrate again. But since my updates are general of the LONG variety, it won't be in the next week or two.  
> Forgive me. But they ARE coming. Promise.  
> And thank you!

She knew she’d broken just about every rule in the Team Arrow rule book, but she hadn’t any other choice.

Slade hadn’t given her one.

It didn’t matter why or how: she knew he’d never trust her again.

Oliver would never trust her again.

But Slade hadn’t given them any room to breathe. To move. Even Moira’s funeral had felt stilted; like a suffocating mass of anger, worry and grief pushed into a box with the lid closed. Inescapable.

Except the worry kept climbing. The fear kept coming.

_“I see Oliver isn’t here.” Slade passively took note, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Somehow I expected more. I should have known.”_

He’d found her on the Queen Mansion’s grounds; outside of the funeral reception that was being put to full use before Oliver’s family home was fully taken from them. _Thank you Isabel Rochev._

The mother of all snakes had taken to walking round the mansion like she owned the place. And… she did.

Unable to stomach this and the thoughtless comments of people she didn’t know, the disappointment and sadness in Thea Queen’s face and the inquisitiveness of Laurel Lance - the ‘Oliver needs to be here; where is he? It’s his mother’s funeral’ kind of interest - and Walter Steele’s final farewell to her - ‘I’m being transferred to a branch in England’ - Felicity had walked - _fled, don’t lie; you fled you big run-away type person_ \- through the mass of bodies to the unpopulated field at the back of the mansion.

The place was large enough that she could have gotten lost if she tried.

Not that it was a possibility. _Not that the idea wasn’t tempting_. John had found her before she’d made it even three steps out of the parlour and, after taking in the look on her face, he’d linked her arm - her Knight in Shining Armour - and had _escorted_ her outside to wherever the hell she pleased.

Of _course_ , she’d been crying. _Out of everyone it would be me, wouldn’t it?_ And she figured she’d been pretty good with getting decidedly _not_ teary eyed during most of the past year and a half of being a third of a renegade vigilante mission to save Starling from its own darkness.

Well, more a fourth. Or was it a fifth?

Roy, Sara; perhaps a sixth would come along soon. Quentin was more of an honorary member. Maybe he’d bring in Laurel.

Laurel. The woman had known Mrs Queen for over a decade of her life and hadn’t shed a _single_ tear; not through the funeral and not surrounded by well-wishers.

( **AUTHORS NOTE: I use facts in what I write so guys: watch the scene. LL grew up with these guys, Moira doted on her, yet her eyes are DRY. Then again, maybe she suffers grief a different way… except when it’s her sister. And everyone else. Except Moira.** )

Maybe it was a façade; Felicity knew - _God_ did she know - that there were sharks in the water who viewed tears - viewed love and affection - as a weakness to exploit. Or maybe Laurel was simply stronger than she was.

But it was just so sad.

_Oliver._

He’d come home after five years of hell and pain had been his only reward. After trying to navigate a world he’d forgotten how to live in, after 4 failed attempts at a romantic relationship, after loosing his best friend… he’d lost his mother. Felicity sometimes wondered if he ever regretted coming back, if he ever dreamed of what life could have been like for him if he’d decided to set up shop somewhere in Colorado or Mexico or Tahiti. If he’d ever considered just leaving Starling tucked away exactly as he remembered it. It wasn’t his mess to fix, not necessarily his people to save.

Hit after hit this year, yet he’d still _tried_. Returning to Starling last year only because she and Diggle had asked him to - she would have begged if she’d had to because unfortunately, this was a world where what you wanted couldn’t come first - to serve a city that could barely stand the sight of him. To run a company when the board leaders and financial allies had no faith in the Queen heir as CEO. To save lives as the City’s guardian during the night hours and receive no thanks in return, even fi that wasn’t why he did it. To try and fight for his mother, only to discover she wasn’t who he thought she was, that she wore secrets like armour and threw them at people like knives.

Felicity would know: Moira Queen had skewered her on the end of one particularly blunt edge just a few months prior.

But now he’d lost her along with any hope of putting the family he once knew back together. Along with any hope of rectifying their past mistakes. Just as he’d tried to heal the gap he’d made with Tommy Merlyn and Laurel before Tommy had died and again afterwards, before her vigilante manhunt.

 _“I can’t be who she wants me to be.”_ It had been a confession born from a mix of their collective solitude in the Foundry, after what felt like weeks of research - _bunny ears because watching over a year of criminal activity on camera did not make a pleasing way to spend a night_ \- a secret stash of mint choc chip and a glass or two of wine, courtesy of Verdant inventory.

And, of course, the fact that he knew she was a judgement free ear. He did this on occasion when Dig wasn’t around; he’d talk to her. Just as she knew he and Dig had their secret little Vodka ‘man-chats’ after she’d turn in for the night.

_“I’m not the man she fell in love with. That person… he died when the Gambit sank.”_

_The third person narrative strikes again._

They’d been sitting in front of her computers; her feet tucked in beneath her thighs with the tub of ice cream firmly in hand and Oliver beside her; his elbows braced on his knees as he rotated a half-filled glass of wine between his fingers.

 _“And I can’t be that person.”_ He’d muttered to the liquid he’d scarcely sipped. _“I don’t want to be.”_

The person who’d sacrificed the chance to bridge the gap between himself and his best friend for a shot at healing the past.

This she knew because, again, Oliver had loose lips once alcohol kicked in. _It explains his ‘my body is a temple’ excuse because lord knew he’s had reason_. But he never really drank unless down in the Foundry. With the people he trusts most.

The fact that she was one of the two made her chest warm. _Us, out of everyone._ Even his sister. Even Laurel.

 _Before_ Sara.

 _“Is that something you may want to rectify at any particular point?”_ Now Felicity - being no stranger to a good bottle of wine - had already partaken in 2 glasses and was well into her third. She didn’t take the blame for this, _oh no_ ; he kept refilling hers, as if plying her with the kind of wine she could only gaze at from afar because it cost $100 per bottle in the hopes that it would make her memory fuzzy around the things he’d say to her.

It never had. She’d listened, heard, saved and protected each precious gem he’d entrusted to her.

She remembered how he’d looked at her. _“What do you mean?”_ The bafflement there that was just a tad short of adorable because honestly, what else could she have been asking?

_“You’ve changed. But so has she. Are you both so altered that you can’t find it in yourselves to love each other as you are now? Or are the differences too much for you to come to terms with?”_

What was the alcohol percentage on that bottle again?

It was a subject she’d promised herself and the Universe never to touch because the words toxic and masochistic - for her - sprang to mind.

Oliver and Laurel. Messy and painful didn’t come close to describing their history.

And maybe that’s why he’d replied with: _“Love shouldn’t be about changing a person.”_

 _“So, don’t try to change her. Or change_ for _her.”_ Her spoon - licked clean of minty goodness - had wafted somewhere in the direction of his face. _“You’re right; love should be about fitting. Together.”_ Key meet lock. _“And for once, I didn’t mean that the way my brain wanted me to mean it.”_

He’d been watching her progress - her consumption of _his_ ice cream - with a level of fondness that, without the floaty affects of alcohol, would have made her babbles near-to unbearable.

It looked like tipsy Felicity’s grasp on the correct usage of vernacular was somewhat more appropriate than sober Felicity, which _so_ wasn’t fair.

Diverted; calmly, because he hadn’t been anywhere close to laughter - his lips had upturned in a soft approximation of the shortest smile in the history of smiles, even as he’d dodged the flick of her spoon with absent-minded ease. _“But we don’t fit together.”_

She remembered her slow swallow following his rare honesty and the taste of ice cream on her lips. _“When did you figure that out?”_

 _“After Tommy’s funeral. I visited her.”_ Thankfully he hadn’t gone into specifics. _“She wanted to return to the way we were…”_

 _“Oh, I hate that movie.”_ His breathy laugh into his glass - that she’d managed to do that for him - had made her feel like a queen. _“A love story that ends in the leading couple realising they aren’t compatible and shattering what they once had. What a way to spend 2 hours.”_ Two hours of her life that she’d never get back. Maybe god-awful angst that held no reward was popular with a lot of other women - possibly women who had someone to return home to - but to her, unnecessary tragedy was exactly that: unnecessary.

 _“Sounds like me and Laurel then.”_ He’d murmured; his voice tempered by the wine and boy did that go down her spine. _“How we are, who we are; it isn’t about our differences. Those shouldn’t matter. We just don’t work. And there’s too much history, there’s too much… there’s just too much.”_   He’d shrugged; trying to wax being completely copacetic yet coming off as anything but. _“I don’t want to go back to that.”_

His own failures were large enough as is.

 _“Sometimes love isn’t enough.”_ She softly stated; her spoon thankfully, back in the tub.

_“…Yeah.”_

But it didn’t take away the fact that he was lonely.

He’d tried to do so much with so little; and for a man who was as emotionally constipated - with good reason - as Oliver Queen, Felicity thought he’d done more than most could have, _would_ have done.

And _his_ reward? The loss of his best friend. The loss of his mother. His father.

When did the misery end? Did it ever?

No wonder he hadn’t turned up at the funeral.

She’d wanted him to be there, just so that he could say goodbye but maybe he already had. And that was her other worry.

What if Oliver had simply… ran? _As in, away_. From his life, from Slade, from the pain. He’d done it before. And she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to now… but she didn’t have the heart to drag him back this time. They needed him now more than they did before, but the cost to him now was far greater.

Could she do that to him? Could she be strong enough to break him like that?

Worse, what if she found him and he was already done with it all?

Though her trail of thought had been loud and filled enough to take the place of three voices in a conversation, she’d been silent with Dig as they’d walked and she’d only vaguely processed his request that she stay with the car so that he could check on Thea before leaving.

Which was why she hadn’t noticed him until is more than a little too late to run a mile.

_“Miss… Smoak, is it?”_

Heart in her chest, she’d jolted - recognising the voice - before looking around, finding him stood there beside the hood of the car. _“W-what are you doing here?”_ It had hit her then. _“How dare you be_ here _.”_ How dare he just stand there at the wake of the woman he’d shoved a sword into.

 _“I know. You see me as the villain.”_ He’d muttered, opening his mouth again to give her a lecture on how Oliver was the evil who deserved all the world’s cruelties but she’d had enough. And she was upset. Not the best combination for her.

_“Don’t play games with me. I’m not in the mood for sympathy for the devil today.”_

_“The devil.”_ It had surprised him. _“Hm. I see Oliver isn’t here.” Slade passively took note, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Somehow I expected more. I should have known.”_

 _“You need to leave.”_ She’d said with more courage than she’d felt, knowing he knew it was bravado if the little chuckle he let loose was anything to go by.

 _“I’d love to but I’m here to pick up someone special.”_ He’d said; staring out over the grounds. _“Thea is quite different to her brother: to believe the words of a man like me, even if they are true. She’s already pushed him away. I thought her mother’s death might soften her but, unlike Oliver, there’s a colder countenance beneath her exterior. She holds grudges whilst Oliver just wants to be loved: she’s the perfect pawn.”_

 _“Shut up.”_ She’d stepped back, away from him; knowing to run away from him was a futile gesture but he wasn’t there for her. She was just a convenient ear. A messenger. _“You’re not taking her.”_

He’d shrugged. _“If not now, then I’ll find her at the train station. Or my men will. She’s booked her tickets and I won’t allow her to leave Starling precisely because Oliver wants her to. You honestly think I’d let someone he cares about so strongly just… leave? No.”_ Moving towards her, she’d made herself as small as humanely possible to him; as if doing so would deter him.

It didn’t.

 _“Unfortunately,”_ He’d rasped inches from her face; his body pushing hers into the car, _“Oliver’s love life is as hopeless as it ever was. And I_ had _hoped for him, you know?”_ He’d added at the gaping disbelief on her face amidst the fear. _“By now, any other man would have managed to either rectify his past mistakes or move on from them. But Oliver seems stuck in his own history, or between two sisters. He can’t seem to choose one for the other.”_

 _“Or maybe he’s_ allowed _to try.”_ She’d bit out.

For several seconds, Slade just… looked at her.

And she’d felt the ghost of his hands around her neck, the vehemence of his vengeance against her skin, the death of love and grief still fresh in his eyes against her own before he spoke again.

 _That_ was how strong, how visceral, his violence was.

_“Or maybe he’s just afraid.”_

Afraid… of what?

Choosing not to indulge him, she’d kept silent until he’d sighed. Until he’d turned away, walking towards a black sedan that she hadn’t noticed as he’d spoken.

 _“It’s a bad time. I’ll see Thea later. Take care, Miss Smoak,”_ he’d called over his shoulder, _“the next 48 hours with push the entire city to its destruction.”_

 _“You don’t have to do this!”_ She’d called out on some desperate bid to reach any piece of him that was still human.

He’d stopped then, his hands tucked inside the pockets of his suit jacket. _“I suppose I don’t.”_ Twisting about, his one eye caught her. _“But I want to. It’s the least he deserves and city is something else he loves. I’ll never rest; why should he?”_

 _“Don’t do this.”_ She’d shaken her head, actually pleading with him. “ _Please, he’s been through enough. He isn’t the person you think he is.”_ The people of this city didn’t deserve to be played with like this.

His head had tilted. _“Are you sure he’s the person_ you _seem to think he is?”_

 _“I know that he’s done things, that there’s darkness in him. But there’s darkness in me too.”_ She’d implored, with a hand pressing to her chest. _“You fight against it; you beat it back every single day. You do the right thing. That’s what he does.”_ What Oliver tries to do.

Just as he’d beat Slade, _with my help_. And Dig’s help. Sara’s.

Thea’s.

For another long moment, Slade simply stood there: looking at her.

 _“What does he do, I wonder, to inspire such trust?”_ He muttered. _“That hasn’t changed, I see.”_ He took a step towards her, more a symbolic gesture than a move to get closer. _“He’ll disappoint you eventually, you know. He always does.”_

_“How can he, if I don’t expect anything from him?”_

It was how they worked.

He didn’t expect her to be there, to help him; but he’d been thankful that she was. Just as she hadn’t expected him to be kind, to be generous, to be her friend just as much as he was her ally. It was a kind of indulgence, she supposed. Their relationship was the only one each had where expectations and obligations weren’t ghosts in the foreground.

Only promises. One’s they made sure to keep when made, which was why they rarely did.

 _“A man must face justice for the wrongs he’s done.”_ Slade abruptly threw at her. _“I’m well aware of how many I’ve committed. I just… don’t care anymore. You don’t, you see, when you loose your reason.”_

Just that one time, she asked. _“Your reason?”_

 _“For living.”_ A soft rasp, his voice belied his intentions. _“Is yours, Oliver? What would you give to allow him his reason for existing?”_

She’d felt her hands curl into fists, had felt her heart pound in anger and fear. _“I’m doing this with-”_

_“Even if his reason was violence? Even if he lived for the kill… would you still do everything in your power to make him happy?”_

Slade had departed after that, leaving Felicity with that ludicrous notion; one she’d immediately brushed aside because, deep down, Oliver was just someone who’d lost his father. He was a man who knew he’d never be able to save the one person he’d wanted to save the most. The first person he’d lost after Sara fell into the ocean’s abyss.

He was a little boy who needed his dad to tell him he wasn’t a monster.

Felicity had thought his mentality was obvious from the start.

But after the funeral, Felicity had still done the one and only thing Oliver had made her swear to never ever do again.

She’d told Thea that her brother was The Arrow.

…And now, his trust in her was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you did this.”

Barely spoken - more breath than voice - Oliver just… he just _said_ it; not knowing each word was like glass embedded into her skin. That the betrayal screaming at her from his eyes _hadn’t_ affected her in the same way her stomach being perforated would.

It was the mark left behind by a stamp of cruelty an unjust world seemed determined to reign down on him. He bore it better than most when he shouldn’t have to bear it at all.

But he’d never thought he’d have to bear it with her.

And it would never leave her - seeing him this way; still touched by grief, only to have to hear this - the kind of painful memory to turn a sinner into a saint, to haunt her in her dreams. She’d rather she’d stabbed herself in the eye than be on the receiving end. But since when was Felicity Smoak ever given anything other than the short end of the straw?

“I can explain.” She tried… but couldn’t continue because the damaging way his eyes - tired, red and aching - kept flickering away from her, kept looking at her and leaving her as if his eyes on her for too long might stain him - made her throat close.

He looked _lost_. “How?” And he sounded worse. Like the rug under his feet had been pulled out too fast for him to see the culprit.

But really, it wasn’t as if she’d allowed him a single moment after finding him in his alternate hideaway. Looking helpless, agonised and so very alone, he’d been three seconds into a speech where she was sure would involve him sacrificing himself for the good of all of them, when she’d royally blitzed his brave and ridiculous notion of desperate morality - of unyielding guilt and self-hatred - straight to hell, where it belonged.

Where _she_ belonged since, right then - with his gaze so dark, hurt and hard on her own - she knew she’d crossed one of only two lines he’d painted on the ground for them both to watch for in regard to each other. To never trespass.

Stealing her nerves - seriously, she was _shaking_ \- Felicity wet her lips, opening her mouth-

“My _sister_.” The hushed sound in the silence seemed so loud, just as his expression filled the room. He couldn’t quite affect ice with her, but the almost soft venom in it echoed through the empty vicinity. Like she’d done something unforgivable to him. And she had. “The one person who should never have to know my secret, the burden and the price of it, now has to-”

“See that you’re the hero she’s been _admiring_ for months?” Those weren’t the words she’d wanted to say, instead of the explanation she’d prepared. A damn good one. But hearing him pull himself to pieces so easily, for him to still see his alter-ego as this monster was just _completely_ -

_“-Even if his reason was violence? Even if he lived for the kill… would you still do everything in your power to make him happy?”_

It was asinine. “You spend all your time trying to help the people in this city; don’t you think she’d see that first?” Where was his faith in his sister? “That you cared enough to try to save the man she loves?” Roy who he’d tried so hard to save, when his then-girlfriend had been hell bent on killing.

Oliver was just staring at her, as if nothing she was saying was being heard, like he’d never seen her before and not in that nice ‘ _you constantly surprise me and I love you for it’_ kind of way or _‘their secret ‘Oliver Queen special’ shoulder touch smile’_ way.

It was killing her. “It isn’t something to be ashamed over.”

“You told her my secret.” He whispered, refusing to see past that… to see what she was trying to tell him. So still where he stood: jacket on the floor, shirt creased, eyes raw. “You of all people.”

The one he’d entrusted with his secret in the first place, knowing she could have driven him to the police instead of the Queen’s Industrial Steel Factory.

_“It wasn’t your secret to tell. I decide…”_

“I know.” No matter how she was feeling right now, she didn’t break his unyielding stare: wouldn’t look away from his immense pain, feeling every bit of his gaze on her face. Still feeling the weight of the broken promise that she’d made to him; to never do what she did with Barry with anyone else, even if she’d been trying to save Oliver’s life at time and had succeeded. “Ok.” Bringing a hand up to her forehead, rubbing at the pucker that had taken up residency there an hour ago. “I need to tell you-”

“My mother’s funeral,” he continued and her mouth shut, her insides rolling sickeningly all at once, _please Oliver_ ; “was only this morning… and you had to go and put _that_ on her?”

You chose now to add to the ruin of the everything that is my life?

“I’m sorry.” Though his secret wasn’t this depraved thing he believed it to be - _I wouldn’t have joined him if I thought that_ \- she knew he’d kept Thea as far away from it as possible for a reason. It was his choice: she’d respected that. And for that, she was so, so sorry. “Oliver, it isn’t-”

“Whatever _good intentions_ you might have had, you were wrong.” He near-sneered and _ow_ , that was not a good look on him. Or a good effect on her heart. Really, _ow_. Defensive with the realisation that his sister knew almost everything now, the only available response left to him… was to feel it. And to reject it.

Reject _her_.

“This is so much worse than whatever you were trying to accomplish.” He whispered, his eyes leaving her to see things he’d never share. “What were you thinking?” Anxiety rolled off him in waves and he began to pace; his hands coming up, fingers sliding into and gripping his hair with increased agitation. “I can’t _believe_ you’d-”

“No.” _Come on._ It was firm and louder than she’d wanted it to be but he wasn’t being fair: he wasn’t allowing her to explain. “It wasn’t like that.” She’d willingly take the blame for doing exactly the opposite of what he’d wanted but he needed to know why. He needed to understand. _Please_. “You can’t-”

“I don’t care.” Like a disillusioned boy. “I-” Abruptly coming to a halt, he stared at the wall: his hands still in his hair, his throat working.

…But didn’t he know her at all?

 _You know me_. To her core. It wasn’t even something he could question at this point. And yet…

She opened her mouth, willing herself to speak words - to allow her thoughts a voice - _anything_ ; to tell him that Slade had men waiting for his sister at the station - she’d found them on camera, having shown Thea too as another offering of proof, feeling that to deceive her now would be a lesson in redundancy that she didn’t have the time to entertain - to say that letting her leave him because he was sure that having Thea near would do more harm than good instead of the opposite, when she caught foreign the expression on his face. Caught the tension in his shoulders and hands. Caught the fractured air about his person. Caught the way his eyes were bright but not with happiness or hope; with a desolate kind of heartbreak. One _she’d_ caused.

This Oliver she didn’t recognise.

She’d broken his heart. She _had_. It wasn’t that his sister now knew… it was because, at the crux of all things, Felicity - his rock, guide and the voice in his ear - had ultimately betrayed what he’d believed about her at a time when he couldn’t possibly handle it.

She hadn’t shaken the pedestal. She torn it down completely.

It froze her solid.

 _He’s never looked at me like that before_. She’d never seen anything close to it and certainly not directed at her.

It scared her. She was scared. And she couldn’t ask to be mollified at this point. He didn’t have it in him.

But she was also scared that he was too far gone to hear her. To _see_ her.

It was the wrong time to tell him: she should have waited, at least until Thea was close so that she could tell him herself. His sister had been suffering from the break in their connection; hearing that he was the Arrow had been like taking a happy pill for the girl. Before her eyes, Felicity had watched Thea smile… then laugh and cry and hopped up like a mad little bunny on crack.

Oliver should have seen that too. He’d have loved it. But he was so far gone – so sure of his darkness – that he couldn’t see the light that he inspires in people, _that he inspires in me_.

Yet to reveal his secret on the day of his mother’s funeral… not the _best_ thing for his mentality, even if she hadn’t a _choice_. And watching him despair, she knew her mistake and hated how it took for her to see that bulldozing into him like a bull in a China shop, was possibly the worst way for her to introduce him to life altering occurrences.

This was going downhill much faster than she’d anticipated.

But, she’d been afraid too.

“I can’t do this with you right now.” It wasn’t the right time, the right moment but his voice was deathly quiet, low to the floor and it was making her tremble; a sick feeling bubbling up inside her. “Not here.” Completely unwelcoming. Different from the way he’d always been with her. “I… I need to go.”

And it hurt like hell.

He shifted. Hesitated. Then started moving. _Away_.

_No. No, no, no-_

Plucking up her courage, she took a step - one small step - manoeuvring into him as he came close. “Would you please just listen to me?”

He strode _past_ her.

 _Oh no_. Panicking, her hand automatically touched his arm as he did, grasping onto it. “ _Oliver_.”

He stopped still: his back to her.

He didn’t reach for her or touch her, didn’t acknowledge her… didn’t turn to meet her eyes.

It felt like something was breaking between them.

“I’m-” His voice was hoarse and fresh with grief and she watched his back move up then down with another, deeper breath. “I’m having trouble even looking at you right now.”

_I’m having trouble even looking at you right now._

It dropped like a stone from her chest to her stomach, rendering her mute.

Her mouth opened, shocked; drawing in a breath that was far too difficult to fight for, didn’t help her.

…So, she released him.

Standing there, his arm slack at his side once more - and he’d never looked so burdened - he walked away. Slowly. _Unsteady_.

About four steps in, he came to a brief halt - his body leaning as if to turn back towards her - but it lasted only seconds before he was moving again…

Until he was jogging. Until he was _running_.

He was good at that.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Okay, so I was shocked_ , she thought to herself as she made her way into Verdant. _But next time I see him, he’s going to listen to me whether he wants to or not._

He had to.

And she’d beg him if _she_ had to.

Besides, they needed to get this done. Slade was out there: he had to come first.

But having this on their chests wouldn’t help.

She’d told his secret to Thea, because nothing less than the truth was going to stop the young woman from boarding that train: _trust me, I tried_. Thinking her brother wouldn’t let her in, especially after the loss of their mother and her disastrous last encounter with Roy - add to that, the secret of her heritage - and Thea Queen was one prickly, extremely distrustful person. And who could blame her?

“Not Oliver.” She muttered, striding swiftly - there was a lot of work to get done - past the empty bar towards the door in the back. “And not me, otherwise I wouldn’t have said a word.” Didn’t he know that? Couldn’t he have just thought it through for a few minutes before unilaterally deciding she’d betrayed him in a flash of whimsy?

But… he’d had an understatedly bad week.

It gave him a lot of leeway in this arena. She was fine with that.

Before the entrance to their hidey-hole, it was as if she’d run into a wall; her arm aloft to enter the code, she’d stilled. Her body remembered fear in any of its forms. She took a minute to slow her heartbeat, which hadn’t stopped climbing since she’d come to her senses 20 minutes ago. _You’ve faced his anger before._ But not this. Not something created by her.

He was the absolute best – the worst – at being hurt. At those short bursts of violent energy. At the long nights of brooding. A the way, even his sharp edges felt like a tiger’s ire but also spurred the irresistible urge to stroke his _fur_.

 _Enough with the mental imagery_. Without further ado, she input the code, pushed open the door and near-flew down the stairs.

“Alright!” She shouted - breathless, nervous and ever more desperate with each bumpy step - out into to the din, not looking at either Oliver of Diggle until she reached the bottom because, even though they were guys and not selfish teenage girls, they gave the unqualified best ‘I’m judging you’ faces. “I know you’re _beyond_ angry at me and I promise you I understand why - you don’t even have to _look_ at me - but I need you to listen because I the reason is…”

Trailing off, she paused at the sight of a solitary John Diggle leaning against one of the work benches.

He looked… something.

Frowning, she circled one of the pillars to reach him; her eyes probing the area. “John, where is he? What’s-”

She stopped dead.

One of the glass cases was empty, a duffle bag was fastened - full to the brim; probably filled with the contents of said case - beside her Knight in Shining Armour who… who looked so unbelievably uncomfortable right then.

She looked at him; hesitating and fearful before speaking. “Dig?” Softly. Fearful.

“He’s not here.” That bothered her even more: it wasn’t like Dig to quote the obvious. “He’s asked me to meet him at a site we’ve never been to before.”

“His secondary base?” She asked, hopefully, because she hadn’t made Dig accompany her as sole witness to her earlier clusterfu-

“No.” The loudest, heaviest exhale in the history of all exhales left him. “Felicity…” The pause near killed her… until his words did what the silence hadn’t. “He doesn’t want you there.”

Brick, meet face.

Stomach meet floor.

Heart go splat.

“I mean,” he hurriedly added; seeing her countenance shatter, “not right now. Later, he’ll need you but right now he’s-”

“Betrayed.” She whispered, eye-lids fluttering, looking away from John’s too-kind face and swallowing down the multitudes of everything’s and nothing’s that swam through her.

Oliver was pushing her out.

“He’s being an idiot; something I’m going to let him know once we get there.” Lugging the bag onto a shoulder, John watched her blink at him I confusion. “What? It’s a dumbass order and you learn in the military not to follow dumbass orders.” He smiled at her and it was supposed to be comforting, _supposed_ to set her at ease. “You don’t take away one of your main players, your left hand, at the start of a big game. We both know there’s no way we can do this without you.”

_We._

Diggle really was the kind of friend who made sure the people he cared about knew that he did.

Still, “no, you should go without me.” She found herself saying; closing herself off to the sensation of breaking somewhere behind her ribcage. Oliver: seeing her wouldn’t help him right now. “There’s something I need to do anyway.”

Like, say, meet Caitlyn to assess their miracle cure and possibly beg her on bended knee to inhumanely speed it up to have it ready in say, _oh 8 hours?_ _Was that pushing it?_ Or ten give or take a few: did Slade even have a countdown to the start of his personal Armageddon?

“No.” And he was already shaking his head, already moving to place the bag back down for what she assumed was a rehearsed speech about her usefulness and irreplaceability, one she’d heard before. “ _Hell_ no. I get that he’s hurt but-”

“I broke his trust Dig.” And she wondered if the pain she felt right then - saying those words - hurt her as badly as it had hurt Oliver to hear her say _‘I told Thea you were the Arrow’_.

“Felicity; I’m being serious.” And he was; she could see that, hear it. “This isn’t something we can do without you.”

It wasn’t the time or the place for Oliver to place feelings ahead of logic. In fact, it was beyond bizarre that he’d even consider it. Uncharacteristic. This was Oliver. The Vigilante. The Arrow. He made burying emotive reasoning in favour of cold calculus an art form he excelled in.

But his mother had just _died_. The immortal Moira Queen. Logic held no place inside him right now.

“There is nothing _to_ do. Not now.” She wasn’t wrong. “We have no leads save one and its still morning. Slade won’t make any moves until nightfall and I have things to do before he decides to.” When the city’s speed of response will be at an all-time low, when the city was transitioning from day-time criminality to night. “Besides, I’m not quite into masochism and self-flagellation.” The type that involved one very hurt Oliver Queen killing her softly every time she met his gaze. “Might as well wait until he’s had some time to… to process.”

Time to take a breath and maybe feel like he could hear her out? Because, him pushing her away, it wouldn’t last, right? He’d forgive her… _right?_

She sucked in another breath, feeling like that was all she’d been doing for the last 30 minutes: it was so very different from the year before. The night she’d told him ‘if you’re not leaving, I’m not leaving’. The night he’d lost Tommy.

She’d just wanted to make sure he didn’t lose his sister too.

Dig sighed, echoing her internal sentiment because, _boy_ , would this day be _long_. “This is ridiculous.”

She couldn’t help but shrug. Mope, more like. Cookie dough and Game of Thrones reruns felt appropriate right about now. “It is what it is.” What choice did she – they – have? Felicity gave a great big sniff. _I. Am. Fine_. “You meet Oliver. I’ll… go… do my thing.”

“Your thing?” And she could see that he wanted to take her with him; to reach for her arm as she was walking further away, back to the stairs but he didn’t because he knew what the outcome would be. “Nothing dangerous I hope?”

“You know me Dig.” She said nonchalantly as her feet touched the first step. “I’m all about letting the big boys handle it.”

Internally, she winced.

Did that sound snappy. Scrappy?

She hadn’t meant to put it that way but Oliver and Dig - as beautiful and warming as they could be with her - where kings at trying to keep her out of the fight. At deciding that, as long as they fought, she wouldn’t have to.

It became more and more demeaning - humiliating - as time wore on. Especially since Sara’s arrival. She loved Sara, thought the world of her. It was easy to do so and Sara had shown, more than once, that she loved her too.

But it became increasingly obvious, the longer Sara stayed on the team, just how much Oliver and John’s views of felicity differed from their views of Sara. They were fine with Sara facing untold dangers but _oh_ , Felicity was a flower. Theirs to protect. And that was lovely, understandable even.

It still upset her; just because she couldn’t do Kung Fu didn’t mean she couldn’t get involved with the fight.

All women were the leads of their own story but Felicity wasn’t even granted _that_ luxury: she wasn’t the princess they kept safe in their tower with their secrets, that was Laurel. No, she was the serving girl to King Queen and the lady in waiting to the Amazonian Priestess Sara (a name which, incidentally, means Princess; _just FYI_ ) who the king rightly revered. _I’m straight to the letter and I 100% understand that urge._

Dig called out to her before she reached the top. “Felicity?”

“Yep?” Her lips popped the word as she twisted against the railing to face him.

The same railing Oliver had hobbled down only a week before… she’d caught him at the bottom. He’d allowed her to. Trusted her to.

So, maybe it wasn’t so much ‘serving girl’, more ‘friend’ to the throne… _I need to stop thinking with medieval analogies._

But she wanted that back: that easy trust between them.

“Why did you tell Thea his secret?” Dig asked, looking up at her. There was nothing remotely judgemental on his face. “I came out of the mansion and you weren’t there. ‘Girl talk with Thea’, you said. You told me to drive away, to go find Oliver and I did as you asked.” _Because I trust you_. The words didn’t need to be said for her to hear them. “If I’d known what you were about to do-”

“You would have stopped me, John?” She knew she sounded sad but, _see! Right there; unknowingly chauvinistic_. Machismo, possibly? She wasn’t sure. “You can’t control what I do any more than Oliver _wants_ to.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Diggle said; repentant.

She nodded because she knew him and knew he meant it. “I know.”

He waited a few seconds, watching her.

She blew out another breath, stirring her loose fringe. “Slade threatened Thea.”

Dig’s arms fell out of their relaxed ‘crossed over chest’ status when he straightened. “What?”

She wanted to hug herself and chafe her hands down her suddenly chilled arms. “She had tickets booked to leave town and he was going to meet her at the station. And take her.”

“Oh my god.” Dig wiped a hand over his mouth; his hands sliding over his scalp. “This, changes things.” _Everything_. “What else can go wrong?”

She didn’t need to agree to the obvious this time. Or answer the rhetorical. “The only way to stop her was to either-”

“Tell Oliver who doesn’t have it in him to think clearly right now,” and would very likely, kidnap his own sister and do something stupid, “or to…” an _‘of course’_ crossed over his expression and he exhaled. “To tell her the truth.”

“Right.” Felicity muttered quietly, her fingers tapping against the railing in leu of a keyboard.

“Felicity, you need to tell him.” Dig earnestly told her, shaking his head. “If he knew-”

“He’d be my _friend_ again?” It sounded juvenile even to her ears and she arched a brow. “Dig, if he was thinking clearly he’d have known – immediately – that I didn’t break his trust simply to break his trust. He’s grieving.” It was too much to ask for right then.

Arms falling from around his head, Dig pressed his lips together offering her another complicit - albeit grudging - nod. “You do what you have to. But Felicity?” He called out before she could push open the door. “The first moment I get, I’m telling him.”

She looked at his face; his serious, earnest, caring face.

And smiled at him. “I’m so glad I met you. That you’re my friend.”

He returned her smile and it was probably one of the few moments where Diggle allowed himself to be the kind of soft where his eyes shined. “Ditto. We were pathetic before you came, you know?”

She laughed and it sounded wet.

 

* * *

 

 

Five minutes later saw her back in her car, adjusting the rear-view mirror.

“Right. Plan. Action. Go forth.”

Oliver and Diggle didn’t _actually_ know the true extent to Caitlin’s work. They hadn’t been present when she’d given the serum to her friend, nor had she told them about the various updates in the weeks since not wanting to get their hopes up.

Well, maybe she should have. If what Caitlin had said on the phone earlier was still true, there as a cure ready and waiting. Oliver could have used the boost. The hope.

 _Hindsight is 20:20._ She took a breath for fortitude, buckled in, put one hand on the wheel and the other-

The door to her right opened and closed with a loud slam - her tiny yelp went unnoticed - as Thea Queen slid into the passenger seat next to her without comment. “Thea?” Felicity blinked, side-on at the new comer.

“So,” the girl announced, “where are we going?”

“Uh…” and she was sure her great open-mouthed fish impersonation was working wonders for Thea’s confidence in her. “Central City.”

There was no harm in telling her now.

Thea frowned at her, obviously not expecting that comment “Why?”

Eyes skirting to the window - to the view of the Foundry door - as though Oliver would waltz through it in seconds to reprimand her for saying far too much about ‘need to know’ details - Felicity looked to Thea and, for some reason, answered. “I explained about Roy, right?”

“That he’s in a venom induced coma for his own safety until you can find a way to reverse the effects of whatever made him hulk out?” She answered, straight-faced.

The extreme-condensed version of her pages long explanation. “Well, there might very well be a cure now. In a lab. In Central.”

“You-you mean-” She grabbed Felicity’s arm, as if she wasn’t already right there; with her. Hearing her. Seeing the visceral hope obvious in her face. “You can save Roy? Wake him up?”

Thea loved and missed him. Needed him. Didn’t care about what he’d done. She just wanted him back. And she was relieved at the lack of lies now; relying on Felicity to keep giving her the truth that her mother and brother had denied her for so long.

Felicity placed her hand over Thea’s and gave her a friendly squeeze before quietly – happily – saying. “I hope so.”

Exited at the only good news she’d had in weeks, Thea near-threw herself back in the seat; her very small self quite comfortable in Felicity’s equally small car. “Alright! Let’s go.”

“Are you sure you want to be coming along?” Felicity asked, even as she put said car in reverse, her gut clenching at the idea of leaving Starling, even if only for a matter of hours. As if she was abandoning her own home. “This cure isn’t just for Roy.”

“It’s about Slade Wilson.” Thea nodded. “I’m sure. And…” she seemed to search for the right words as the car turned out of the alley. “I really need to be involved right now. I need to trust someone.” The message was clear. She was trusting Felicity. “And Ollie- I want to talk to him when this is over and I won’t be able to if he leaves, like he did last summer.”

“Something tells me he won’t this time.” He was different now. His heart was different.

“I hope so.” Thea mumbled.

 _I know so._ “Now what do you say to an after-lunch-but-really-breakfast-latte and muffin because I haven’t eaten yet, treat for the road?”

“I’d say bring it on except, change latte to cappuccino and muffin to cinnamon swirl and we have a deal.”

“You speak my language.” She pressed her foot down. “Buckle up. I’ve got to go fast.” And luckily, she had Quentin’s guarantee that no cop car would stop her. “Don’t worry.” She winked at Thea – more a double blink. “I’m a _very_ good driver.”

 

 

“Oliver?” Diggle called out, his eyes roving over the area because, an abandoned warehouse? Really?

Striding into view, Oliver looked… well, he like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a week.

Suit rumpled and the skin beneath his eyes haggard; he looked like he’d given up.

…Yet under his arm was a laptop that Dig immediately recognised as Felicity’s. “Laurel’s coming.” Oliver grated out; pain, stress and the everything of his life, wearing down on him. “She has some information and… and Slade told her.”

“About what?”

“About me.” He looked up at Dig after placing the laptop down. Carefully. “She knows I’m the Arrow.”

Another complication. “Oliver, we need to talk.”

_About Felicity._

“Not now.” The response – the barked-out reply – was immediate. “I need to-”

There was a sound several meters beyond where Oliver had walked in, footsteps. Heeled footsteps. And it wasn’t seconds until Laurel Lance walked into view and Diggle was reminded, strongly, of when Helena Bertinelli arrived in the Foundry the previous year, having threatened Oliver into helping her. Another woman Oliver’s judgement was poor around.

 _I have a bad feeling about this._ “Oliver, man, you need to know-”

“Ollie.” Laurel called out and Diggle internally sighed, turning to watch her: seeing her eyes wider than usual, the quiet breath she needed to take and her body shift with the _knowing_ that Oliver was the Arrow… and felt physically nauseous. _Make your mind up, girl_. He wasn’t here for this.

“Maybe,” she uttered, glancing at Diggle and _hell no; not happening_ , “we should speak in private.”

“Or you could wait.” Diggle said, not that it mattered. In six months, maybe she’d be hunting him again. _I’ve seen this man face some of the worst days of his life_. “Time is of the essence.” _Which is why Felicity told you that she-_

“You said you could help me.” Oliver announced to her; dark eyed and affected by a certain kind of tunnel vision that got a lot of people hurt should he not check himself. “What do you have?”

 _You have Felicity_. And they didn’t have time for maybes. “You need to-”

“I have information. Proof that Sebastian Blood is linked to…” Laurel took another breath, stealing herself; knowing that this – since Sebastian was Oliver’s friend – would be another hurt onto of the countless other hurts. But her job came first. She had to bring the ‘bad guy’ to justice. And that was all well and good but, what was their plan? “To the death of your mother.”

_Oh hell._

How did he just know that he wouldn’t get the chance to say a word?

But he knew what Oliver _pretended_ he didn’t. They needed Felicity.

And as Laurel stood in front of Felicity’s laptop - as he watched Oliver still at the sight, at the wrongness of it, but not say a word - and as she pulled up files that took her 9 times as long _\- I counted_ \- as it would take Felicity, as she thought she was being helpful but was in fact, reminding the two men of who they needed, Diggle knew the next few hours would be the worst they’d faced.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later… _hours_. Hours that felt like days.

“I… I don’t know what to do.”

They were injured. Already strained. Alone.

Just him, Diggle and Laurel. Laurel who couldn’t work the computers the way he’d needed them to be worked, who couldn’t find them the vantage point they’d needed an hour ago. He’d been hurt – blinded by events – and this was where it brought him. There was nothing left. He’d failed. And-

She was alone too, somewhere in the city. Alone and deserving of so much more.

“Where are you going?” Laurel called out, seeing him move. Seeing him swiftly rise from his seat – from where he’d had his head in his hands for the past ten minutes after watching the home that he loved burn, after seeing his plan to take out Slade fail. Grabbing his bow, his boots thumping hard with each step. “Ollie?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, “I need to find her,” he muttered to Dig as he passed: one thing on his mind.

“Oliver,” he paused; looking over his shoulder at the solider standing proud yet defeated behind him, “we don’t even know where she is.”

And Oliver dismissed it because, not knowing meant nothing.

“It doesn’t matter.” He whispered as he left.

He’d find her. He’d always find her.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d pushed it. _Really_ pushed it. But they’d made it in time and yes, Caitlin hadn’t needed begging. The cure was finished: wonderfully finished and distributed into cylindrical containers that… glowed. _Huh. I’m sure that doesn’t mean they’re radioactive…_

Unfortunately, she didn’t have the time to ask. Or test it.

_Felicity, we need you._

Dig’s text had almost made her crash the car. Night had fallen and, on the outskirts of Starling - the case of their miracle cure on the backseat - Felicity could just make out… _fire_. Everywhere.

Broken fences, ruptured boarding, shattered windows, crashed metal…

The city was burning.

“Oh my God.” Thea breathed next her and – even though every citizen was in danger – knowing that Thea was a target, a special kind of fear seeped into her. But Slade wouldn’t let her leave the city (or at least, he wouldn’t have if Felicity hadn’t gotten to her first); his men posted at the train station and the airport. Felicity could take her now, drive back to central… but she couldn’t leave Starling behind. It was her home and Amanda Waller wanted to drop bombs on it, as she’d warned them – her and Diggle – of what she’d have to do should they be unable to stop the threat of Mirakuru.

Steadying herself, Felicity called Dig. “John, what happened?”

 _“Tell me you’re close.”_ And it was about ten steps beyond aggravated - to the limit - and maybe one step behind true fear.

“I’m just heading into the city.”

 _“We’ll talk about where you were afterwards.”_ It wasn’t accusing. More curious. _“Oliver needs your help.”_

“Send me your location.” She ordered, speeding down the empty road; her eyes landing on the abandoned vehicles just ahead, on the fire from what looked like an honest to goodness war zone a little further beyond them and gulped down a wad of anxiety. _Focus_. “What happened?”

_“We couldn’t find Slade. Before we knew it, the city was filled with his thugs; all of them enhanced.”_

“No,” _nu-uh_ , “I-I sent you the location.” She insisted, swerving around an upturned bus. “There were blueprints!” A plan; everything they’d need.

 _“Yeah, well…”_ a muffled sound of steps - as though he was walking away from somewhere - and a long, deep breath sounded down the line, _“We couldn’t access them.”_

Frowning, because _odd_ , Felicity asked. “What?”

_“Laurel took over command of the coms. And security. And… yeah.”_

That said everything.

“Oh.”

Oliver had put her… had given her Felicity’s job?

Had she already been replaced with Oliver’s _ideal_?

 _“Yeah. It wasn’t Oliver’s choice.”_ Was it bad that pure relief flashed through her with that? _“We didn’t have any time, not after we found out about Sebastian’s involvement.”_

She blinked. “Sebastian Blood?”

_“Laurel told us what she’d discovered. He’s the masked man infecting people in the Glades. We were hoping it would lead us to Slade but we got our asses handed to us.”_

“But the-”

 _“She didn’t know how to access what you sent. She didn’t even know that you’d sent something._ ” Saying Diggle sounded aggrieved was an understatement. _“She thought it was an email and ignored it, almost got my head blown off and Oliver run over when she couldn’t alternate between cameras in time, but she wouldn’t get off the coms.”_

Wanting to bang her head against the steering wheel, Felicity settled for a groan.

Her baby was being used by a neophyte.

 A sound of agreement left him. _“We haven’t had a chance to breathe yet and we can’t just send her out of there in the middle of all that.”_

A screaming child caught Felicity’s attention, her eyes flickering to the throng of people scattered here and there, trying to find loved ones, pulling people out of wreckages and – in the distance – she was sure she caught sight of two large men wearing orange and black masks and rolling – _rolling_ – a van down the street.

No, they couldn’t send Laurel out here.

_“We have no idea what to do Felicity. You’re plans were good; I managed to look at them. But they’re useless now and… this is a level of screwed we’ve never been in before.”_

She swallowed at the bleakness in his tone. “Yeah, well, I might have something to fix that.”

There was a moment of silence and when Dig next spoke, he sounded choked. _“Did I tell you how glad I am that you decided to join us all that time ago?”_

It wasn’t the moment to let that warm her but she smiled anyway, let it coat her tone. “Yes.”

_“No, seriously, I knew you’d save our asses.”_

“Yeah, right.” She teased, even in this mess and knew she was getting some confused side eye from her very quiet car buddy. “You wondered. Admit it.”

 _“There may have been a moment.”_ And it sounded as though levity was a strange reprieve to him then. “ _I’m sending the address. ASAP. Please Felicity.”_

“Were on our way.”

_“We’re?”_

“Um,” she cast a quick glance to Thea, “Thea might have tagged a ride with me.”

_“Oliver’s not going to like that.”_

“Just one more thing Oliver doesn’t like about me right now.” She muttered; the question of whether Dig told him hanging over their heads.

John read her mind. _“I haven’t told him.”_ He let out a deep exhale. _“Haven’t had the chance. When I found him this morning, I opened my mouth only for Laurel to come walking in.”_

“Oliver told her where to find you?” She asked; her voice small.

He’d told Laurel who couldn’t possibly help them in this - not the way the woman obviously wanted to - but hadn’t told Felicity who’d had plans - good ones, as always - that they couldn’t use because she hadn’t been there to guide them.

She hadn’t been there because Oliver had pushed her out.

…She hadn’t been there because _she_ _hadn’t been there_.

Oliver’s stubbornness wasn’t fully to blame, nor was his ability to hurt her. Felicity – in turn – had deliberately left the city. Yes, to help but to also get away for a little while. To, and she was ashamed to admit it, prove a point.

A point he hadn’t let her prove. How childish of her to go, to not explain as a way of saying, ‘so there’.

She hadn’t seen it that way until now.

But she also hadn’t known how fast this would all go downhill.

_“Oliver’s feeling a lot of things right now. He wanted to keep her safe so he brought her here. I told him, by that vein, you should be here too but-”_

“But he’s angry.” So, he let his heart in the way of his head and no that didn’t hurt to-

 _“No.”_ Not expecting the vehemence in that, Felicity shut up. _“He needs you to be safe. When he realised we had nothing, when the city went to hell, he went looking for you. When he couldn’t find you… I’ve never seen him like this Felicity.”_ Hushed, more than a little shocked by everything, Diggle continued, _“It’s cutting him up.”_

Entering the Glades, Felicity decided not to take Dig’s words the way her heart wanted to. “This is certainly worse than how the city was last year.” Maybe they should start scheduling to prepare for the month of May.

 _“I meant about you.”_ Again, her mouth closed. _“He screwed up and he knows it. We didn’t know if you were alright and in this chaos…”_

 _Oliver_. “I’m sorry.” She whispered.

_“Hey, I get it. You didn’t have much choice. But we need you now.”_

She nodded, though he couldn’t see her; accelerating. “I’m on my way; I’ve just got to make a pit stop before I do.”

 _“Well, Oliver’s elsewhere right now so, try to get here before he comes back?”_ And does something stupid, went unsaid.

“Count on it.”

Cancelling the call, Felicity turned to Thea. “You ok?” She sounded shaky.

A rapid nod was her response. “This is crazy.” Thea breathed; staring at the wreckage around them.

Fear: the mind killer.

“It won’t last.” _I hope._ “I just need to get to-”

“Look out!” Wide eyes and shouting, Thea stared out of the glass at her right and Felicity turned just in time to see the car skidding towards them.

Her heart stopped.

“ _No_ -”

It clipped them; jerking their bodies sideways, sending the car skidding, crashing-

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

…She heard shouts. Screams.

“Felicity?”

The voice was quiet. Afraid. Unstable.

_Thea._

_Ugh_. Blinking blearily, Felicity’s vision righted itself - her body processing every piece of sensory data it had - for her to realise… she was on her side.

On the floor of the car.

Grunting, “Thea,” her glasses skewed, she rolled onto her back; staring up at the front window that was no longer so much a glass window than a very large hole, “are you ok?”

“Y-yeah.” Buckled to the car door above her, Thea was more less flopping over Felicity’s form. “My arm hurts.” Two Hazel eyes, somewhat dazed, peered out from curled brown hair. “Can we get out of here please?”

“Absolutely.” Glass crunched beneath her feet and butt and she pushed upwards, ignoring all manner of little hurts as she did. “Brace yourself.” She said, her fingers finding Thea’s belt to unclip the thing that was keeping her suspended. “You’re going to fall onto me.”

“That’ll be fun.” Thea croaked at her.

“Then we’re going to climb out the- the hole.”

“Ok.”

“And make our way to the Foundry. To Verdant.” Because they needed a few things before they met up with Dig.

“Kay.”

“Okay.” She pressed the button-

Thea fell bodily onto of her.

“Oof!” Winded - there was pain in her side that she hadn’t felt earlier; _cracked rib?_ She and Thea manoeuvred around, half digging into each other. “Right, we just need to-”

“Sell tickets?” Thea muttered, looking down at how their legs were locked and their hips were together, how Felicity’s hand was keeping her head from hitting metal. “Because we could, you know; we’re hot. We’d make a fortune.”

The bridge between Felicity’s eyes crinkled; pain flaring everywhere when she involuntarily laughed. “Is this how you deal with being in a car accident?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Thea orientated herself, lifting to grasp hold of the window rim, “I was high the first time. And unconscious the second.”

“I forgot about that.” Felicity followed her, heaving her resistant body through the shattered glass and hoping not to cut her hands too much-

There was another crash- then another, in the distance. Followed by a scream. Then shouts, cries, muffled footsteps-

The sound of breaking.

Crouching in front of what should have been the hood of the car, Thea near-whimpered. “What’s going on out there?”

 _Wait_ , “Don’t move out from the cover.” Sliding down next to her, Felicity peeked over the rim.

There, over by the car that had hit them, was one, two, three Mirakuru soldiers about 20 meters from them, searching. They were clearing the roads, making sure people no longer tried to flee. Or maybe, they were following orders to apprehend Thea Queen and whichever idiot was with her.

_Oh, frack me…_

Felicity swallowed. Opened her mouth. Closed it.

_Um-_

“S-so, I have an idea,” she started; her voice wobbly and all sorts of other things as she slowly looked at Thea, “and you’re not going to like it.”

Thea glanced at her, wide eyed… then she slumped; a look of reluctant agreement warring with dislike on her face. “Figures.”

A fake bright smile painted itself on Felicity’s jaw. “Just follow my lead.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you did that!” Thea hissed and-

“Ssh!” Glancing wildly behind the girl – as if one of Slade’s huge henchman (why are they always massive like that) would pop out from hiding any second – Felicity pulled Thea around the corner and into the alley with her. “Keep it down!”

“There’s no way they can hear us now.”

True.

In the near-distance, another small explosion made the ground rumble beneath them.

“Whoa.” Thea breathed as vibrations echoed underfoot. “How many bombs did you leave for them?”

“They weren’t bombs.” Felicity absently muttered.

They’d been explosive arrowheads; placed in strategic locations in the car.

The soldiers had closed in on the vehicle just as Thea and Felicity were tip-toing away. They’d ripped open the side door that wasn’t against the tarmac, only to be hit with several small blasts.

…That were still going off.

Hopefully, none of the civilians were close by, though she’d had the distinct impression that the Mirakuru ‘soldiers’ had… had killed them. Or shut them up.

But if she hadn’t done it, they’d have been found by now.

“And that was the engine.” Felicity said as, what she assumed would be the last little bomb, a small - short and sweet - blast fractured the air. “Come on.” She input the code to the door around the corner from Verdant. “In you go.”

“This is the Arrow’s secret base?” Thea said, hushed; as if worried about disturbing something as she entered the darkness.

“Yup.” Felicity locked them in.

“Right.” Thea swallowed as the lights switched on. “Should have guessed.”

Turning on the lights, Felicity heaved the briefcase around and started for the stairs. “Arrowheads.”

“Huh?”

Their footsteps were heavy with their haste. “We need a sure-fire way of making sure these babies,” she lifted the case briefly, “get to the right places.” As in the neck, arm, chest – anywhere on the body of a Mirakuru host. “Roy needs inoculating too.”

“H-how can I help?” Unsure of her place in this world still so new to her, Thea couldn’t find any single area to stare: the work bench, Felicity’s computers, the glass cases, the sparring mats… but she was clearly very willing to help.

“You,” Felicity plonked the case down on the surface, “can help fill the heads with the cure. The arrow acts as an injection port.”

Thea nodded, staring at the luminescent contents once Felicity opened the case. “How many?”

“As many as there is in the case.” Almost running towards the cabinets, Felicity yanked open the three deep draws in the middle; each containing a fresh batch of green arrows.

“And,” Thea watched her return with her arms full, “how many are there in the case?”

Taking a deep breath – dropping her load on the bench – Felicity remembered Caitlyn’s instructions and the layered container before them and braced for Thea’s reaction. “69.”

Don’t ask her why.

Seeing as how Slade had an uneven mix of prison inmates and the few men that the serum had managed to infect on the streets in the name of this masked man - Sebastian Blood - it meant they couldn’t miss a single shot.

Then there was Roy. And Slade.

Thea started at her, seeing it all.

“We have about ten minutes to get this done.” Felicity offered. “20 at a pinch.”

Slowly nodding, Thea took her own shallower breath and reached for an arrowhead and one vial of the cure. “Best get started then.” She lifted her hands, peering at Felicity. “Show me how?”

 

* * *

 

 

The Clocktower.

Of course. Sara’s hideout. She should have figured they go there; it was the best vantage point in the city… but it wasn’t secure.

Depressingly, Oliver could also look out over the city and see the carnage, see Slade’s vendetta – his punishment – being acted out in full on his home and it was so very Oliver Queen that Felicity could see him doing exactly that in her head.

The fear would be with him: the possibility that Slade really could take away eveyrthing Oliver loved.

_Over my dead body-_

“Then we take the fight to him.”

It was Sara’s voice; the first voice Felicity and Thea heard as they climbed the stairs and it was bad - _very bad_ \- that none of them - Oliver, Dig, Sara, _Laurel_ \- had thought to place sensors throughout the building, though she figured they had other things on their mind.

But still… bad. Amateur.

“And what do you propose we do?” Oliver’s voice and eh sounded pushed to the limit already. “We have nothing that can hurt him or his men and no plan to get to him-”

“Explosives.”

 _Sara’s was going for shock and awe, I see_. Rather, she was choosing to end this before it got worse. And it _could_ get worse, it really could.

“You want to blow up Queen Consolidated?”

Each word felt forced, as if it had taken a lot to push them out. He knew she wasn’t joking but the idea was so obscene… The steel beneath Oliver’s undertone - the not-so-hidden warning - made her wince as Thea gave a start. They shared a glance; a ‘what crawled up his ass’ on his sister’s end and a ‘yeah… he can get like this,’ on her own.

“Let’s not be hasty.” Laurel chimed in. “Maybe if we triangulate with my dad-”

“That won’t work.” Sara told her. “We’d just get them killed.”

“But with the police, our numbers will be greater than theirs.”

“As much as I’d appreciate having sheer force on our side,” said a brand-new voice neither she nor Thea - she guessed given the ripple of confusion in Thea’s expression - recognised, one with a smooth - proud - British (of the upper class persuasion) accent, “I’m afraid the might of the ‘security’ in this city will be nothing more than fodder. Besides, my men should offset the deficit.”

“But, there are only twelve of you.”

“Fourteen.” The voice corrected. “I assure you, their skill alone makes them five of any man.”

“But these aren’t normal men.” Laurel insisted.

“A moment ago, you were insistent on using your father’s poorly trained police force. Do you change your mind this often all the time?”

“Nyssa…” Sara whispered.

Reaching the door - adrenaline having made short work of the flights of stairs otherwise she’d be in very real danger of passing out - Felicity put her hand out to push it open-

“This doesn’t change anything.” Oliver’s voice - quiet and near-crushed - made her freeze in place; made her heart pound again, which was ridiculous, “because. We. Have _._ _Nothing_. We’re just going to get a lot of people killed.”

“Oliver,” _Finally_. Dig. His levelled-baritone added calm to a group that sorely needed it. “I reached Felicity.”

There was a moment where time seemed to stop. Felicity felt Thea’s eyes on her; probably because Felicity was staring at the door like it might come alive and eat her.

“You reached- so, she’s-” Obviously struggling - which didn’t make her stomach clench _at all_ , the idea of Oliver struggling because he was overcome - a breath came from him, loud enough to hear through the door. “Felicity’s alright?”

And she’d never, _ever_ get over the way he said her name: the throaty lining to it, totally unnecessary to do but he did it anyway. The way he’d sometimes whisper it. Or shout it. The way he stressed out the syllables, letting them roll off his tongue as if every time was the first time…

No, that wasn’t her shivering. Her back muscles hadn’t all seized: she was just cold.

Their last memory had left her feeling exactly that, yet all it took was for him to say her name the way he always said it…

“Yeah; I think she’s fine. She-”

“Is she coming?” Quick. As. A. Flash. “Where is she?” She heard movement: heavy footsteps. “I’ll go find her.”

“No, Oliver; she said she’d meet us here after she stopped off somewhere-”

“We need her _here_.”

As if there was only one answer he’d accept. Like… like her absence made things worse.

_I rely on you._

Even if it was just from the comrade point of view, Oliver needed his IT girl. His Girl Friday.

She had a job to do and before she knew it, the door was opening beneath her hands.

“Sorry we’re late Dig!”

And yes, she addressed him and no one else because a) half the room’s inhabitants had a weapon aimed at them in the moments between the door opened and closed - even Laurel; a _pistol_ \- and b) because, though he’d brought her up, she didn’t know how pissed at her Oliver was. Still, in this scenario, if he had something to say to her that was anything less (or more) than a quiet ‘hello’, he could take a well-meant hike somewhere warm.

Like, his own ass, which was where he chose to stay 70% of the time.

_Ok, that was harsh._

But, sometimes it was very true.

She couldn’t take an argument, not now. Later. He could officially kick her out of the vigilante club after this was all over.

“ _Put_ your weapons down.” Oliver voice commanded to the room and she caught sight of him as he stepped out from behind his most recent ex-girlfriend. “Now.”

One by one, a dozen or so bow and arrows lowered.

Laurel was the first to point her gun away. And John-

John looked like he’d never been more grateful to see another human in his life. “Tell me you have a plan.” It wasn’t a question; more of an expectation that she would open her mouth and say-

“Better than that.” She found she couldn’t smile, not yet.

Not with Oliver’s eyes on her.

In the brief instance before hers flickered away, because there was no way she could hold _that_ stare.

It was like he was saying _‘I’m sorry._

_Don’t leave again._

_Don’t leave me alone in this._

_…Don’t hate me._

What?

A shining intensity gazed at her out of blue, _blue_ irises - tired eyes and a weary heart endearing them further, if it were possible - until his abruptly shuttered. She’d expected that. Like he wouldn’t allow himself the simple pleasure; the happiness of knowing they were a complete team again.

…Of knowing she was safe.

Was he that angry with her?

 _Focus_. “I’ve got a _cure_.” Giving John a tremulous upturn of her mouth, she plonked the stash of filled Arrowheads onto the only dusty, table-like surface in the room like, ‘ta-da’.

The attention in the room shifted from on edge and drained - resigned - doom and gloom to stunned disbelief, which she preferred.

Each room member – and she restricted herself to just one question in the near future about the number of ninja-robe-clad assassins standing huddled near Sara – gawked at her. At the open bag. Blinking. Incredulous. Wondering…

Awed.

Relieved.

At any other moment, it would be funny. Right now, she was close to shouting _‘what are you all waiting for?’_

“A cure?” Quiet - so quiet, low, hardly darling to believe it - Oliver stepped closer, peering at the contents like it could grant him any three wishes on earth. “You were able to synthesise a cure.” It wasn’t a question.

In fact, the way he asked it, pretty much poured down her spine like honey.

She cleared her throat. “Caitlin was able to; I just gave her the sample.”

As though relief had an existing weight - as though it was heavy - Oliver’s eyes closed, his shoulders bevelling.

There was a muffled sound from behind a pair of hands. “You know you can never leave us again, right?” Dig happily told her, his fingers dragging over his face, revealing a pair of grateful eyes.

Head lifting, Oliver looked directly at her. “You gave it to Caitlin?”

She had to keep blinking: his eyes were overwhelming and, for the first time, she couldn’t read them.

Whether he knew it or not, she’d take anger over detachment. But this… this was something else and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

For example: she and Thea had just been in a car accident. Sure, they were walking. Sure, there wasn’t any time; they needed the cure distributed before more civilians were sent to ICU. Sure, she’d never needed him to pay attention to her before… but he didn’t even look to the blood on the side of her face, or the way she was limping. He didn’t ask if they were alright, though his eyes kept shooting to an area just behind Felicity, to where Thea stood ramrod.

As if he wasn’t allowing himself to investigate right now: his unreadable gaze stayed pretty much glued to hers.

“I did.” Felicity nodded, forcing down the wad in her throat. “I trust her. She’s the best.”

And just like that, he looked reassured. Knowing she hadn’t lost that ability made her feel like she’d missed a flight of stairs.

Pulling in a breath - shuddering with the depth of it - he let it lose, his gaze briefly dropping; as if he had to process what she’d just said.

_I trust her. And she’s the best._

He’d said that to her once.

In deep-thought mode, a quiet chuckle made her jump and she looked about to see John had dropped his hands. He stood there smiling with his eyes closed, his head upturned; facing the ceiling. “There’s a cure.”

“And more than one,” she looked down into the bag, pulling out an example arrow, “for each of you.” She licked her lips, staring at each person in the room in turn because there was no way Oliver would be standing there with them if he didn’t at least trust that they were on his side. “Please don’t miss?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey.”

Like, _pst_.

Her eyes closed, lips pressing together, swallowing.

Giving one great big thump first, her heart began to pound. Her gut clenched. Her palms started to sweat.

Fingers faltering in their dance across the buttons of her laptop, she tensed with bated breath.

He was going to say the words. The ‘we need to talk’. All the negatives of relationship drama without experiencing any of the advantages.

Or the _when this is over, I want you gone from the team_. Even worse _… I understand why you did it, but I’ll need some time to trust you again._

Yep; that would probably kill her. What a truly crap- _tastic_ way to end the year mark since the Undertaking. But she couldn’t die just yet: they needed her.

Then she could rot; preferably somewhere with a shower included.

After the fact - after she’d talked and babbled and floundered her way through an explanation of what, when and why - there’d been a flourish of activity; Sara, she’d discovered, had been the one to call in the cavalry that her not-quite-as-ex-girlfriend-as-everyone-thought, had responded to with style and a certain swiftness that implied certain feelings were still very much present between them. That and the way the two women looked at each other…

Seriously; they looked good together.

Then there was Laurel, who had Felicity’s open laptop sitting sadly, _uselessly_ , behind her - after having found that Oliver had taken it first. From her Home.

Yep.

He’d just… walked right on in there.

And this was before Laurel had _borrowed_ it off him.

 _“There are secure files I can’t authorise access to.”_ The woman had told her, like patient-lawyer privilege meant anything at all during this. Better yet, as if Felicity _cared_ about said files.

 _I mean, yes; normally I’d be all for helping the underdog._ But there was a war going on outside.

“ _And I’m keeping tabs on my father_.” Laurel had added and Felicity hadn’t the heart to tell her that an open radio signal was an all-time low in terms of recon and communications appraisal.

But Felicity had only _asked_ because she hadn’t wanted to use her tablet with its crumby excuse of a battery and output. Their lack of security in the building was worrying her; what harm would it be to set up some form of remote access surveillance and her tablet had needed all the help it could get?

But it appeared Laurel was more interested with legalities than… well, life in general. _Huh_. Either that or she was vying for a pissing contest. Something Felicity was _so_ not interested in having on any day if the week ending in ‘day’.

Laurel’s role in Oliver’s life had always appeared very clear-cut: she was his first love. She may also be his last. Never had she had to question her place there.

But then she found out about Oliver being the Arrow and everything changed. Her whole world changed.

Just not Oliver’s.

 _“Slade told her.”_ Diggle had mentioned under his breath earlier, as he’d loaded his pistols. _“Probably looking for a way to make Oliver’s life more complicated.”_

He’d succeeded.

So now, Laurel had to redefine her meaning to him and she was choosing now to give it time for thought.

Starting with Felicity. _Who was this girl with glasses? How did she fit into all this? What is she to my ex and how does it change things?_

She got it. Felicity understood.

 _“I’m trying to make sure we weren’t followed.”_ She’d told her, with about as much patience as she could spare: outside was a ticking time bomb of destruction labelled Slade Wilson after all and Quentin Lance, who Laurel was becoming increasingly worried about was out in the thick of it. _“It means I need access to certain systems and-“_

_“Laurel.”_

She’d felt him closing in behind her - and she couldn’t possibly explain how she felt him there, how she always felt him there - but she hadn’t thought he’d take that step past necessary into _choice,_ until the heat of him was directly at her spine and her mouth was involuntarily opening with a silent gasp at the strength of her reaction. At her lack of control over it.

Torture. 

It was instinctive too; that he was bigger – tougher – than she was and it was all she could do not to lean backwards and lean into him. She wanted to. She never could.

 _“It’s her laptop.”_ A loose breath from him stirring wisps of her hair at her neck and somehow, she knew: he was doing it on purpose.

Oliver never drew this close to her _back_. Only her front and not in a sexual way: it was a symbol of their status as equals. He didn’t see her as a woman he could make love to. Just one he could share burdens with.

So, what was with this, his… selfishness? What he was doing, physically, was selfish. An odd word to use, but the right one.

 _“Sara wants to talk to you.”_ He’d added and Felicity could only guess what his face said, the face Laurel could see.

And… that was it.

Oliver’s gentle equivalent to ‘go away’.

There was a kind of confusion in Laurel then, mixed in with the tension in her shoulders; the type of stiffness that could figuratively snap her in two. Taking him in, trying to uncover the why’d of this version of Oliver, Laurel had never seen before, she’d stared at him. He was taking away the one thing that gave her the thinnest veil of purpose in the odd posse they’d assembled and Laurel had to decided, quickly, how important it was that she argue a point that wasn’t much of one at all. A multitude of questions were in her gaze before her illusion broke.

Arms folding over her chest, she’d acquiesced. _“…Fine.”_

How to thank a woman for giving _back_ her laptop?

Also, how to stop feeling, kind of like a bitch around said woman – a state of being that Felicity wasn’t used to and didn’t like – because after being granted permission to use her own laptop, Laurel had returned. Not guns blazing exactly; more like heels furiously clicking. And she’d stuck around.

 _“What are you doing?”_ She’d asked, three seconds in. _“Why? Wait, how are you doing that? Back up a second. Show me that. What can I do? …I don’t know how to do that. Can you teach me? If it’ll take too long then what_ can _I be doing? I can help; why won’t you let me? I’ll learn fast, what do you mean there’s nothing for me to do? I can go outside and… but it isn’t dangerous; I’m with Sara. With Ollie.”_

Near-twitching - a sight she’d wished she’d recorded on camera because, seriously; he had a vein at the side of his neck that was _throbbing_ \- Oliver had spoken. _“Laurel?”_

She’d looked up at him from behind Felicity, as if she’d had no idea that asking Felicity so many questions might be hindering her progress to evaluate the condition of the areas cut off in the city and whether contact with each was currently possible: namely, the SCPD. _“What?”_

He’d breathed in a deep breath, as if preparing. _“Let her do it.”_

_“I am. I-”_

_“You’re getting in the way.”_ To the point and still very quiet, there’d been no irritation in his tone save a modicum of impatience. And he hadn’t wanted to say it, to hurt her, if the kicked puppy look was anything to go by. He’d shaken his head, lifting a hand that he seemed unsure what to do with and said. _“Please, just…”_

Go.

_Go._

Like it echoed in air. Or at least, it did for Laurel.

Her face said it all; it hurt to look at. _A lot of things are hurting for a lot of people, come to think of it._

Whichever sore sport he hit, it rang home: a live nerve Laurel may have exposed in the hopes of re-connecting, even if it was just to be friends. And Felicity knew with this that Oliver wasn’t just telling Laurel to let her work; he was telling her that she wasn’t needed. Not here. Not in this area of his life.

She never had been.

Looking at anything _except_ a breathing human being, Laurel had all but stalked away to where Thea was hovering over an inert Roy.

…Leaving Felicity alone with Oliver.

_Which. Is. Swell._

Normally, true. Right now? Not so much.

It was like… like a hum.

A vibration. A magnetised bubble they’d been encircled with without their permission. An awareness. Attentiveness. An energy; call it what you will. But it was very much there.

A rhythm neither knew the notes to.

It was in the way a person can look at another and eventually draw near to them, stand _next_ to them and feel like… this is it. This is whole. And suddenly, there’s nothing else. No one else.

Eyes don’t have to meet, hands don’t need to touch: it’s in the air. It’s _right_ there, on the spine. Intangible. It makes a home at the curve of the neck, the tightening of the skin. The weight of everything in-between two people - feelings, memories, cravings - that can press down like hands against sensitised souls…

It was what she’d felt every time – on those rare occasions – she was alone with Oliver: a weight she’d bear gladly, because the promise of ‘after’ was more than enough to complete her in the way she’d been craving for a long time.

It was just that, there was no after; not for her. Oliver didn’t feel the same.

Still, he managed to affect this _intensity_ … Or was it just the way they were with each other ( _I still don’t like that movie_ )?

Was this - a friendship that bordered the ridiculous because they stepped into each other’s personal space far too often, kept eye contact for exactly 10 Mississippi’s longer than what was decent and tended to know the in’s and out’s of each other’s emotional rhythms the way a lover might and _ugh, I hate that word; creepy_ \- just a result of the connection between them? An understanding born of mutual trust and a knowing that the mission they’d chosen would always come first.

 _I mean…_ Oliver’s _hey_ was _not_ the fun-loving, _we want each other_ kind of _hey_. It never had been.

There was - had always been - something about him that made her think he was constantly holding back. Not just with her; with everyone. True, she saw more than most. Saw him at his best and his worst; it gave her an edge over the people he shared history with but she never needed that or wanted it. It was just a fact. Working in such close proximity, it allowed them to see each other in lights kept hidden from the rest of the world.

Oliver was adept at keeping words, secrets, feelings and ideas close to his chest for safe keeping. It wasn’t just a skill; more a way of life he’d adopted when he’d had to. A kind of darkness that meant safety to him. It was instinctive. It was how he protected; how he loved.

But, just as there was something too how he held himself back, to how he loved, there was also definitely something different about the way he could at her that made her feel that he didn’t really want to be as isolated as he forced himself to be. Forced because there was no way Oliver was happy with the way things were, even before  Slade killed his mother.

Maybe she was seeing things. Maybe she didn’t know him at all. Maybe her heart was ruling her head, her senses, her deductive reasoning - her intuition.

But there were times when she felt that he wanted to tell her things he couldn’t verbalise. It was in the way he’d look at her.

However, since she’d arrived, his gaze was writing a novel; words flying by at speed. Too fast and too many at a time to read. Fear, guilt, anger, _feelings_ – all of it there, screaming in his eyes.

Needing her to just stand there; to take it.

Now that wasn’t looking at him, she felt it in other ways - at the back of her throat - just as she felt his attention on the side of her face.

So, yep, his ‘hey’ hit her like a brick.

And his body told her things she wouldn’t let his eyes.

He was fidgeting.

Hearing him shift a few feet from where she was typing, she tried - really hard - not to peek, knowing he’d see. Knowing he’d know that she needed to look. And she was stronger than that; than needing to put herself first. Gloved fingers flexed in her peripheral - rubbing together - before he leaned his weight on one leg, moving his hips to the side and… nothing. In Oliver speak; it was comparable to an Irish jig.

Completely out of his element.

His nervousness would be endearing if what had happened the last 24 hours, hadn’t.

It bothered her.

“I looked for you.”

Her breath caught. Winded.

He sounded… he sounded like he was talking to someone else, someone not her. Someone like Sara or Laurel. Someone who made him _feel_.

And he wasn’t done. “I looked for you and I couldn’t find you.” By his crushed tone, she knew he’d searched for a _while_.

That hit her exactly where it was supposed to. Guilt spreading like an illness, her eyes briefly closed. “I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t in the city?” He pressed; quietly muddled… oddly soft. Hesitant.

Afraid.

 _Of what?_ “…No.”

“Why?” As if it had driven him near-crazy. “What- why did you leave the city? No- I mean, I know you went to get the cure,” wasn’t it usually her who talked in sentence fragments. “But why didn’t you tell us you were leaving the city?”

The city. It was about her leaving the city. “You were fine with me leaving the team,” she took a breath that was meant to steady her but made her sound small, “but not the city?”

And he pretty much sounded - she still hadn’t looked at him - like a heartbroken puppy and didn’t that just make her feel 100 times better? “ _No_.” So forceful and earnest, “No; that’s not what-”

“I didn’t leave because of what happened this morning.” No, she wasn’t that juvenile but, still, a point had been proven and it was to her keyboard that she spoke; biting down on the other things she wanted to say. “It wasn’t my intention to leave you- you and Dig-”

“I made it impossible for you to do anything else.” He gave her and, _what the-_? “I _understand_.”

It was bewildering. She was bewildered. “It was- I just needed to-”

“To save us.”

That… _that_ she pretty much felt everywhere.

There was so much there; a wealth of so, _so_ much in those 3 words that should have only been a simple statement of gratitude but instead, felt like _worship_. And that wasn’t them. Not Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak.

Except sometimes-

“Felicity.”

It wasn’t an option to not look at him anymore. Hesitant - eyes open and honest; her whole self metaphorically exposed - her head turned to see his face…

Her heart skipped a _thump_. The ground beneath her felt non-existent. Her brain melted into marshmallow fluff and everything around her save him pretty much evaporated in a puff of smoke.

 _Oh_ … If she were Laurel or Sara, if she were _any_ other woman, she’d think he was only seconds away from kissing her because friends don’t look at each other like that.

He was closer that where he’d started 60 seconds earlier; his eyes doing that unblinking, beautifully broken but reparable soul thing he sometimes did and-

Please.

If his expression was a word, it would be _please_.

On any other day, she’d be _‘nu uh; not going there’,_ not down a path that led Oliver to another woman whilst she watched, yet right now? With them both still so fresh and raw from that morning, with the truth having found its way to their collective asses in puppy-bite form, Felicity was more than open to some extra-masochistic fantasizing. Maybe even a little role play.

She blamed the day, the week really. Blamed Oliver for looking so loveable all the damn time, blamed Slade and his mother’s death-

“Thank you.” And it came from someplace deep and private inside of, his gruff voice the embers of a dying fire; his eyes beseeching which made zero sense to her just then. “And I’m sorry.”

Needless to say, he’d startled her, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “What?”

“I…” it looked like it was taking everything in him to come up with the words. “I’m not angry at you.” Like they hurt to deliver.

She swallowed. _“…_ Ok.”

There was this ache on his face, something he was asking her to fix just as he was telling her not to. “I’m… I was just hurt.”

Something in her chest clenched like a fist. “Oh,” it was the only sound she could make.

He gave one, hard, shake of his head and it was near-alarming how he hadn’t blinked once yet. “It’s not an excuse.”

Vehement. Was he asking for her forgiveness?

She didn’t understand. “I told her your secret.”

“You did.” He licked his lips. “You still haven’t told me why.”

Her eyes searched his before she whispered. “You wouldn’t let me.”

He swallowed this time, eyes shining before looking away like… looking _down_.

Bracing.

He wasn’t making any sense. Yes, they’d hurt each other, but he’d had a right to his reaction. To his pain.

“But then I left.” She admitted, unable to see him subjugating himself this way when he had every right to feel betrayed, especially since the way she’d dealt with things had been with more than a mere lack of tact to inspire him to lash out. “I left you.”

It didn’t matter if it was to help them: he hadn’t known what she was doing. Amid the chaos, it was an added piece of fear he hadn’t needed and _she’d_ done that. Had he felt like she’d abandoned him?

“But you came back.” It was almost shy the way he murmured it, the way his eyes flickered back up to meet hers and they were the metaphorical dam holding a flood of pain at bay in favour of belief. In her. It was like a punch to the gut. “With the cure.” And hope springs eternal because there it was; in his eyes. Tiny but irrepressible.

She felt herself smile, seeing it but just waited; very sure she looked kind of pathetic with her big, watery eyes and her very dishevelled self.

Which was what he was staring at and continued to do so for several more seconds before he cleared his throat and finally, blinked. “Thea hugged me.” He quietly confessed and the change in topic was abrupt. “She’s… thankful.” Like he couldn’t believe it.

And because he sounded so overcome, she couldn’t help the little wobble in her voice as relief swept through her. “You talked.”

“A little.” Hands twitching on his bow, he sighed.

It had been a literal ten minutes from here to there and Roy had swiftly become Thea Queen’s number one priority. Save the trembling admittance from her – _‘you’re the Arrow_ ’ – and the hard hug she’d given to her stunned brother, there hadn’t been time to catch up. Felicity could see the teenager watching over Roy from where she stood; they’d given him the cure almost immediately after Felicity had stopped speaking to the room at large.

“We need some time.”

“Of course.” He and his sister needed to talk. A lot.

His eyes roved her face. “You-” he took another moment, “you’re hurt.” Then his hand – the one carrying the bow, as if he wanted an excuse to _not_ have to touch her since his empty hand was right there, _unused_ – lifted in stops and starts, which just about broke her heart into a million shards of rusted metal.

He gestured to the side of her cheek and forehead.

_There. Blood. Why?_

The way his gaze fixed on hers, hardening - unblinkingly. _Tell me._

Damn his pretty blue crystals (don’t care if crystals aren’t blue) that rock her ability to stay balanced and make her skin tingle.  All that with just a stare; what a talent. “I’m ok.” She was just really fracking happy he’d brought it up. He didn’t hate her. “Or I will be.”

“Do you need anything for it?” It was gentle, the way he asked; more a murmur than anything else.

She replied in kind. “No,” with the way she was feeling uber needy, him touching her right now would not be the best thing for either of them, “I can manage until this is over.” She straightened her glasses.

Bath. Alcohol. Take out. Bed. In that order.

“…Right.”

Staring.

He was just staring at her.

Which was nice and confusing and she opened her mouth to speak because, why not talk now, but after a short breath, his expression just _changed_ : his game face - his ‘I’m emotionally constipated’ and ‘I, Robot’ face – covered every nuance she’d glimpsed before he simply… walked away.

Done with the conversation.

_Oh… right._

He made his way over to Nyssa Al Ghul and her band of merry assassin’s, possibly to discuss their plan of attack where half her men would reach the SCPD and every other site of contact in the city at which Slade’s men were posted - poised to disrupt communications and the remaining defensive capabilities of the city - whilst the other half would be headed by Nyssa herself, joining Oliver in securing the main exit leading into/out of Starling…

He didn’t look back at her.

Something in her chest wilted.

Nothing had changed; wasn’t that… good?

So, his little moment of awkwardness had been simply that. Awkwardness. He hadn’t really wanted to touch her, so he hadn’t. And once he’d gotten what he’d needed to say off his chest, he’d been done. So, he’d gone.

Like normal.

She pretended – just like she did with pretty much everything else – that it didn’t wound. That, after all this time, the recurring opening of that injury didn’t still smart and she decided _not_ to tell him about why she’d told Thea.

It wasn’t like it would change a thing.

It could wait.

…

..

.

But she didn’t see him.

Didn’t see him see him stand there, alone. Silent.

Secretly watching her in the reflective surface of the tower’s clock face where he pretended to be staring out of, he had to fight with his body not to go back to her.

And she wasn’t a witness to the way his fist clenched at the phantom of finger tips on her face, because he’d already been unsteadied and drawing her near to take care of the small cuts and abrasions on her face that she’d received because he hadn’t been with her, might have done him in when he needed to remain focused.

She didn’t see his lips thin over gritted teeth.

Didn’t see his eyes close in resignation.

In guilt.

They needed to talk too. There were things he needed to say; he couldn’t just commit her face to memory.

She was irreplaceable.

He’d made her feel like she wasn’t.

He’d lied.

She needed to know why…

And it would have to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where’s the kid?”

Or maybe it couldn’t wait.

She’d left the tower - all of them having been given instructions on what, where and when - armed with two doses of the cure just in case, though she’d been sure she wouldn’t need them where she’d been going. Detective Lance needed help securing the city’s communications network, since the military were literally siting on their collective asses outside of the five-mile zone and no one could get a call out, an email...

Turning into the street around from the power station - one of the places Slade’s goons had hit first - she’d bumped right on into the man in question.

As in, literally.

“Well, don’t you look surprised.” If by surprised he meant scared out of her mind then, yes; surprised was the apt description. His voice was one she literally could have lived without for the rest of her life. Pressed chest to chest, he didn’t smile down at her. He just looked. “Miss Queen wasn’t at the station.” Head bent low, his one eye bored into her two. “You didn’t have anything to do with that did you?”

Like a fish out of water, her mouth opened and closed.

“And I know you left the city,” _um, how?_ “So, I assume she was with you.”

“W-well, you know what they say about assumptions…”

He smiled, like, _puny human_. “And then I saw you came back when I was at Queen Consolidated.”

“You saw-”

“I was considering settling for a Lance sister and I’d thank you for making the choice for me, but I have a feeling you’ve hidden her somewhere, which is why she isn’t with you.”

…True.

After Roy had woken - much to Thea’s delight and everyone’s brief happiness and relief, the cure worked - Felicity had sent the pair to a comfortable safe house she’d designed months ago in case of something similar happening. Encased in concrete and iron, far away from prying eyes, Felicity was more than sure Slade wouldn’t find them.

Sara, Nyssa – _‘I am Nyssa Al Ghul, Daughter of the Demon; Sara’s told me about you’_ \- and Dig had already left (to stop Waller from killing them all in the most terrifying way) which pretty much left Felicity alone and… well, _alone_ was enough to be getting on with.

But.

“I didn’t think you had it in you-”

He stopped mid-sentence, realising the problem.

The problem being the syringe stuck in his stomach, the one that he’d fallen into - unseen and unexpected - when he’d slammed into her. When his arms had made sure to keep her close. Where she’d managed not to run away screaming, so as to keep the needle right there until the liquid was fully dispensed.

Letting out a sound that should have been distress but to Felicity, was pretty much the equivalent of a dragon’s appreciation for bottle blonde food – she couldn’t do anything more intimidating than squeak – Slade finally stumbled back a step, the needle sliding out of him…

Still, the damage was done.

In seconds, he’d be a normal human again, which didn’t help her at all.

He was _huge!_

Shakily, his breathing erratic, he lifted his head and the look he threw at her _should_ have killed her. “You _bitch_.”

_Gulp._

“Don’t.”

Oliver.

A rush of relief and adrenaline had her whirling around, wide eyed, where she saw him just as he stepped out of the shadows; his eyes on Slade. “Felicity, go.”

“I wouldn’t be giving her orders.” Slade rasped. “They don’t work on the wild ones.” Those dark eyes flitted to hers, his hands pressed against his stomach as if feeling the effects of the cure coarse through him. “How is this possible?”

“There’s a cure.” She breathed, the thrumming adrenaline playing havoc with her calm. “You underestimated us.”

“Impossible.” He whispered; his eyes glittering with malice. “I destroyed it.”

“Years ago, you did.” She stepped backwards as Oliver reached them. “But what’s been made can be remade.”

Unseeing eyes searched for something only Slade understood. “No.”

“Yes.” Oliver exhaled, his voice low and even. Surprisingly so.

Why was he there with her at all? She’d thought he’d left with Sara…

Something in Slade seemed to click. “You knew I’d follow her.” He rasped.

Something slid into Felicity’s gut. _What?_

Glancing to Oliver now, where he stood just a few meters away – hood down, eyes fixed on his enemy – she caught a ripple of something on his face, of-

Of guilt.

The thing in her gut grew heavy.

Then Oliver spoke and the world about her genuinely tilted. “I knew you put a tracker on her at the funeral. I knew you’d follow her.” He admitted, quietly.

Devastatingly.

She just looked at him.

And she knew he felt her eyes on him because… because his hands and thighs twitched beneath the leather - one of the few tells he didn’t know he possessed - like he’d trembled and he’d tried to control it before it could control him.

“Out of all of them,” somehow, she knew Oliver meant his loved ones, “she’s the only one you haven’t paid attention to. It was how I knew you would the moment I was overwhelmed with… with my mother’s death. That you would-”

“-Realise you can’t do shit without her?” Slade spat. “That out of all of them, if I’d just targeted her from the beginning-”

“This would have all been over before it started.” The blow hit Felicity but Oliver seemed unchanged. “So, you waited.” Like he’d already known. Like… he’d been waiting for it.

And just hadn’t told her. Hadn’t-

Hadn’t **trusted** her.

_“You told her my secret.” He whispered, refusing to see past that… to see what she was trying to tell him. So still where he stood: jacket on the floor, shirt creased, eyes raw. “You of all people.”_

It had been an act, all of it.

He’d once told her that he’d found it nearly impossible to lie around her, to affect any façade… yet he had. To great applause.

 _Oh_ , it could hurt her like a bitch, her heart.

_Can I trust you?_

_Yes. You can trust me._

It was her cornerstone… and he hadn’t reciprocated.

Trust.

Finally, knowing it would probably make him suffer, Oliver chose _now_ to look at her. “It’s over.” He muttered: his words were for Slade, though his eyes were on her.

Wrecked. He looked wrecked… and so, so sorry.

_Silent._

He wasn’t going to defend himself.

She’d been used.

Needless to say, they both missed it as Slade straightened. “It’ll never be over.” As he slid the sword from its sheath.

Feeling the weight of the day, Felicity just… exhaled. Fear fleeing in place of something new and bold and _wrong_. “It is for you.” She dropped the empty syringe, gesturing to it flippantly as she sent Oliver a ‘I don’t care anymore’ glance. “Have at.”

She watched it rip through him. “Felicity-”

Her name - how it could still sound so beautiful off the same lips that had crushed her before was the worst kind of irony - was all he wrote before Slade shouted out, bellowing as he ran at Oliver-

Who ducked the first blow.

“Go!” He yelled at her before engaging in the fight.

And this time, _she_ ran.

Needed elsewhere.

 _Wanting_ to be elsewhere.

 

* * *

 

 

Somewhere close to dawn, Felicity found herself back at her own home.

The destruction had been halted. _Then_ , it had been driven back and already signs of healing could be seen.

And she was drained dry.

But not tired, per se. More… on edge. Every inch of her ached and it wasn’t all physical.

Like she was coming out of her skin but didn’t have the strength to tear off said skin. An itch she couldn’t scratch. A pressure at the base of her spine that just _wouldn’t_ end and another constant thing that made her want to run, even as tired as she was.

A restlessness.

And something else too; something she couldn’t focus on for the sake of her sanity.

Slipping off her shoes and socks – her coat fell somewhere between her living room and bedroom – she stumbled towards the bottom off her bed, wearing her now torn pants and dirty T-shirt and just… just stared at the floor.

Arms lax.

Her heart giving one heavy beat at a time.

Her _heart_ … agony.

He’d lied to her. Played her. Used her.

And the most ironic thing was that, if he’d just talked to her, she’d have _let_ him anyway. Instead, he’d decided what to do all on his own, like he was still on the island. Still alone. Still this person drenched in darkness. Still somehow who could take the love he felt for others and twist it. Intentionally.

Didn’t he realise the problem in that?

Obviously not… or maybe he did and thought he was past the point of no return. But if that were true, what had they been trying to accomplish all year with his lofty idealism in the name of the friend he’d lost?

It could have been minutes or hours; she wasn’t sure. But at some point during her funk - her brain drain, her white noise, her faze-out - Oliver joined her.

Sitting next to her.

Seeing _without_ seeing his shadowed form - it was still dark out - step into her bedroom, she figured by how he’d done it that he was as exhausted as she was.

It had been a long night.

For three hours - and 3 hours was a lifetime to Felicity when she was racing against a possible nuke whilst over-internalising the hole in her gut, created by the man she not-so-secretly loves - she’d managed to help Quentin with the insurmountable task of regaining control over the city.

Knowing that everyone was fine – that Roy was awake and most likely having a very pleasant rendezvous with Thea, that Diggle was currently falling into bed with one very special agent, that Sara was most likely either hooking up with Nyssa or Oliver-

Well clearly, _not_ Oliver… because he was here.

But traumatic events, life-threatening scenarios where the person lives to fight another day sets off all sorts of chemicals in the brain and sex sometimes feels like the only answer.

_So, what is he doing here?_

Certainly not for sex.

There was _just_ enough light – including the fact that Felicity, though her eyes were dazed, was focused on his every breath – that she didn’t have to rely on touch to know that he was moving closer, that he hadn’t stopped.

Then he was sat next to her at the end of the bed: his head bowed, upper body leaning forwards, his hood still down… unspeaking. Tense. Drawn.

She didn’t look at him.

Neither of them said a word. Not for a long time. And the air between them filled; like before, only denser. Words and feelings: hurts, old and new making her bones throb.

It was long enough for Felicity to start questioning the reality of it and then she _had_ to talk, to say _something_ , without feeling like she was losing it. And she didn’t deserve to feel like that.

“You don’t trust me.” She eventually got out of her closed throat.

And though it was quiet, even to her, she sounded _bad_. Her voice coarse and dry with lack of use and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d drank anything.

She didn’t care about that. Didn’t care if she looked just as bad as she sounded and if she smelt worse-

“I _do_ trust you.”

He looked - smelt, sounded - the same as her after all and if he wanted effortless beauty and bedazzling grace he could go right back to Laurel or Sara and-

“Felicity.” She hadn’t responded to him so he’d turned to her – just his head. “I _trust_ you.”

Did he think if he said it that way - in his irritatingly sexy baritone, his soft yet husky sincerity - that she’d just melt?

Well, she wanted to. But she wasn’t allowed, was she? She had to be the tough one, the mature one, the one who couldn’t receive the love she craved.

“I-” _Yeah, that went nowhere_. Her next breath was more a shudder because she was feeling so much, “I can’t…” _far_ too much to deal with right now, not when all her brain wanted was to shut down and, as such, the brutal truth came tumbling out. “I feel like I can’t breathe.”

His reaction was immediate and just as visceral as hers.

He twisted, whispering; “No,” and she saw his arm move in her peripheral. “No, Felicity-”

Without looking - thinking; reacting instinctively - she slapped his hand back down and the sound echoed liked a gun shot. “You _don’t_. You don’t trust me.” And if she had the water to spare, maybe she’d be crying.

She felt his closeness then, “I trust you with _everything_ ,” felt his breath on the side of her face and it was too much, too intimate. A lie, it had to be. She didn’t want guilty inspired affection.

She wanted honesty. She wanted equality. Inclusion.

But… she couldn’t have it off this one-man island. Someone who was her friend only. And yet-

“You _used_ me.” She forced out, shaking her head. “You made me feel _guilty_ and then you-”

“ _No_. No, it wasn’t-”

“You did.” It was louder, sounding very close to tears but still oddly quiet. “You _did_ -”

“I’m _sorry_.” And neither of them moved save for her eyes, which closed at the sound of his plea. At the feel of his nose brushing her cheek. “Please just listen to me.”

She almost started laughing. “You didn’t listen to _me_. I tried to explain and you walked away; you left me first.”

And she pretty much sounded like his girlfriend but she didn’t care. It had just hit her: he’d left her first. He’d walked away, right after telling her he couldn’t even _look_ at her-

“If I’d looked at you,” he began, slowly, emotionally - reading her mind and he wasn’t allowed to do that, it wasn’t fair - and speaking in the undertone to end all undertones, “I wouldn’t have walked away.”

It took her a minute to process that. “ _What_?” She breathed.

“I know you.” And his delivery of that line pretty much vibrated onto the mattress, under her thighs; reaching… other places. _Damn him_. “You’d have never told Thea unless you were forced to.”

“I don’t-”

“Slade implanted cameras at the mansion.” He explained quickly; as if hoping the more information he gave her, the more she’d be able to deal. “And on the grounds.” She heard him swallow. “I saw him with you; I was watching the wake.”

It hit her. “That’s how you knew he’d spoken to me.”

“Yes.”

“And you played on that.”

“…I needed him to believe it.”

“Believe what?” He wasn’t making any sense.

“Believe that I’d pushed you away.” And the desolation in his voice finally made her glance at him. She wished she hadn’t.

His mask was still over his eyes but dirt was smeared over every other inch of his face. Over the cut on his eyebrow, the gash to his temple, the bruise on his jaw and the slight abrasion close to his lower lip.

And his eyes…

She couldn’t see the colour, couldn’t possibly tell you whether the white of his eyes was lined with strained veins.

But his pupils were beyond dilated. And he was looking at her like her every word affected him; like she could ruin or mend him.

She wasn’t sure which she was going to choose and that wasn’t like her.

“I knew that he could target you, eventually.” He started. “That he’d _see_ you and… and he’d _know_.” _Know what?_ “I have access to the camera feed now in my secondary base. When I saw him approach you,” he swallowed, “the first thing I thought to do was to push you away. So… I acted the part.”

Of the betrayed.

“The transmitter he put in your pocket?” He told her, inches from her face. “It also transmits sound. He heard our conversation. Sara installed emitters in the Tower months ago; it cut the signal. He couldn’t hear us there. But, when I first saw him with you, I realised that I could also use it to…”

To lure Slade to him.

“And you…” he looked awed, but there was something in his eyes; as if he knew he was about to lose her. “You surprised me. Again.” The wonder was difficult to face and it was marred with this aching loneliness; one that had always been there yet, this time, seemed to encompass the entirety of who he was in a way he’d never let her see before. It was… sad. And _so_ not fair, to use that. Now. With her. Even if it wasn’t deliberate. “I can’t believe you just-”

“Stuck a needle in him?” Her voice was harsh in the quiet and she saw him wince, drawing back slightly.

His gaze broke from hers. “I’m-”

“You’re sorry?” Turning fully to him now, she glared into those pretty eyes; seeing him note the anger there. The hurt. And she watched as his own filled – not with tears. With sorrow.

Like he was waiting for her to dig a knife in. To kick him out.

A part of her wanted to. “I’ve got to say,” and it was bitchy, she knew; but it was like someone else had taken over, “you _really_ sold it.” She clapped her hands together once, twice, three times - watching him jolt with each one before looking away entirely. “I never knew you were such a good actor.”

“I was always good.” He whispered to his knees as he faced them. “But I never was with you.”

She sniffed. “Seems like that’s changed.”

His eyes closed. “I had to force it.” And he spoke like she hadn’t said a word. “It took everything I had.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” She looked at him for a full 30 seconds before asking, where he didn’t reply. “What do you think would have happened if he’d caught up with me when I was alone?”

“I would have been there, in the shadows.” His mouth opened and stayed that way for a while, as if dredging up words from deep inside him; ones he hated. “Sometimes you have to do the unthinkable.”

Was that it? His great epiphany: that sometimes you had to do things that were bad so that others couldn’t do worse?

“You didn’t trust me.” She repeated.

A furrow etched so deeply into his forehead that the lines of his face grew taught with it. “It isn’t about me trusting you. I trust you more-”

“Than anyone else.” She finished for him, sounding summarily unimpressed and disbelieving. “I got it.”

“I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“You had to be _convincing_ , I know.”

And didn’t care.

“I’m sorry.” It was as if he knew that to do anything other than apologise, would be the wrong thing. As if there was nothing to say. As if he was giving up, dejected. Accepting. It would explain why he sat like that: defeated.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” The words were barely audible and she shook her head, feeling all sorts of lost. “What do you think you’ve done that’s so awful that makes you deserve this kind of life, Oliver? This? This is how you protect. By giving people reasons to be mad at you. To reject you and,” this near-hysterical laugh that was barely a whisper left her, “you’re just sitting there. Waiting for it.”

“…I’m sorry.”

Again.

“How-” throat catching, she shook her head; feeling tears rise this time because _god_ , he was such a- “how can I be angry at you when you’re like that.”

Eyes still closed, his brow tapered in such a way that made him look wretchedly miserable. “Be angry at me.”

“I can’t.”

“You _can_.”

“It doesn’t,” something in her chest was shattering, “it doesn’t _help_ anything or change anything-”

“Do _anything_ you want to me. I can take it.”

“Oh my god Oliver.” _Seriously?_ Yep; she was angry.

“Do it. I don’t care; do what you want.” He breathed, waiting for whatever it was he thought she was _owed_ to do.

“But I _do_ care!” _Frack!_ Not what she’d been trying to say. “I care about you Oliver.” But it was tumbling out of her control.

_I care about you and you hurt me._

He heard what she _didn’t_ say.

His brow softened. His eyes slowly opened. He didn’t lift his head or move.

But he 100% focused on what was silent between them.

His hand lifted… and covered hers.

She pulled it out from under his; a sound somewhere between frustration and need snarling out of her and she was appalled to realise she sounded about as angry as a kitten. “ _Ngh._ ” Her hands smacked back down on the mattress, her head falling backwards, seeing the ceiling; an immense sensation rising, a pressure inside her making her want to rack her nails down her face. Making her want to lose it. Making her want to turn to him and-

“I’m sorry.” Soft. Gentle. “I’m-”

_God, just shut up. Shut-_

Like a band around her chest had snapped, Felicity abruptly turned; her hands reaching out, her head moving closer, her knee digging into the mattress-

Her mouth on his.

Searching.

Hard.

_Oliver._

She was kissing Oliver.

Kissing. Him.

Like they’d both die if she didn’t.

And she felt numb to everything else; the wants of her body currently beyond her control, even as she realised without caring too much that he’d stilled, frozen against her attack.

She’d care later, she knew that. But, right now it was impossible to feel anything but the physical.

It was numbing the emotional.

The softness of his scruff against her lips was deliciously distracting but as rough as her lips were on his, she couldn’t taste it with her tongue-

His mouth moved under hers: a sound escaping, not startled, more… _this is new_.

Something in her tightened.

New was good.

Fingers digging into what it took seconds too long to realise was his cheeks, her head slanted: her lips forcing his to move _with_ her. Even if he didn’t want to. Her nose pressing into him, sliding against his; her hands keeping him _right_ there, where she wanted him-

He tugged suddenly; trying to pull backwards-

 _No._ She opened her mouth over his own, only registering _then_ how soft his was and how unfair of him to have such amazingly supple lips when this would be the first and last time she’d feel them beneath her own. A frantic sound left her throat - a gasping breath into his mouth - and she would have been mortified but it was vital just then that she taste him, that she slip her tongue into his mouth and-

_Savour._

It brushed over his and not lightly. Lovingly. Longingly. Making love to it and not caring that he _knew_ that exact rhythm she was using.

 _This_ was what Oliver tasted like.

Every movement of hers forced his to react, to reciprocate and stop her, demanding that he fucking do something about it-

Her breath caught when the blinding sensation of his hands on her - even gloved - had her moving.

Unfortunately, _away_ from him.

Another sound left her; desperate, irritated at his strength and angry and _why? Why are you pulling away? Because I’m not them? I’m not a Lance?_

What did he care? She was nobody. An IT tech specialist who was offering it on a-

Who he was staring at now from a bare inch away with enough heat to send all sorts of very pleasant sensations tingle down, _deep_ ; clench muscles inside her that hadn’t been in used for far too long.

His breaths were harsh; like she’d stolen them from him. And he was trembling. His muscles taught enough to snap.

…She licked her lips, wanting whatever that was in his eyes.

His eyes fluttered to there, his breath knocked out of him. This… this was different. This was past the point of no return and _why was it so easy?_

It was unbelievable, that Oliver could look at her like that.

Eyes wide – is this happening – they took each other in.

Just before she thought she’d snap, she was yanking her head back to his, ignoring the pull of his friction of leather tight on her arms, as her mouth hit his again. As she _ate_ him whole. Devoured. Just like she’d always wanted to.

He tasted _so_ good…

Perfect.

It took her a moment to realise he was doing the same back.

Mouth, breath, hot - moist - over hers, the sound he made was _wrecked_ and she almost didn’t hear it over the pounding in her ears; like ocean waves slamming into her, desire flaring through her in time with the flow.

She wanted more.

In a blur of motion, she moved to straddle him: every inch of her pressing into every inch of him and every single inch was as marvellous as she thought it would be if she’d ever gotten the chance to make him writhe like this.

To make his fingers delve in her hair, leather thumbs brushing the skin under her ears, mouth quickening and eager against hers and the sensation – the want between them – made her shudder and a frantic sound echoed from his throat, down into hers. His hands briefly left her, only to return without the gloves just as her own dug into the back of his jacket, pulling him closer than humanely possible-

They yanked her head back, lips ripped from lips, baring her throat and she didn’t have the chance to complain when she felt his mouth over her pulse point.

He sucked deep.

“ _Mnh_ -” She bit her lip, instinctively flexing her hips and letting them roll; her toes curling under his thighs.

A choked breath left him; the hand on her neck spasming, his other moving down to press over her ass, to force her down. To make her move again, to silently beg her to not stop that maddening friction.

It wasn’t enough.

Grinding down - feeling a furious kind of triumph lance through her when he flat out moaned and reacted; his hips flexing back to hers - her lips met his again and, panting, she felt over his chest, ripping the zip of his jacket down, her nails scratching him as she tore it off his shoulders, her mouth immediately taking his upper lip in hers and revelling in how fluid this was.

How real.

In seconds, he was pulling off his own shirt and a stuttered gasp left him - the muscles of his chest jumping under her fingers - as her hands dragged down and revelling, _god_ he was ridiculous.

A moment before the tips of her fingers touched his pant line, his abdomen flexed and his own hands were tugging her shirt up, her arms rising with it, pulling it completely off. Then the feel of him: hot to touch skin against skin, the ripple of his nervousness warring with sheer want transferring to her as his arms wrapped her to-

_No._

Swiftly, her hands reached behind her, grabbed his forearms and pulled them away.

Blinking slowly, as if coming to, she watched him gaze at her: mouth open, hair skewed, panting, confused, turned on and… concerned. Careful. A _tell me what do you need_ written in his eyes.

Ball in her court.

All that, wearing nothing but his green leather pants?

Yep, she couldn’t let him touch her.

Her movements jerky - desperate - his back hit the mattress and there was a certain thrill to forcing his huge body down with her own diminutive one.

But he didn’t make her work for it.

The moment he was flat on his back, he bodily jerked; feeling the skin of her stomach flat against his abs and she gasped too, revelling – never thinking she’d feel this; him and against her – and already they were hot to touch. Scorching. Very much ready-

Her core slid over his crotch.

Stars.

He was beyond hard.

She wasn’t the type to overstate anatomy: though Oliver had pushed her to the limit over the past year, but she’d definitely noticed the visible difference between him and most other members of the male sex in… well, in that particular region.

Magnificent.

Her head flew back - she couldn’t help it - losing her grip on his hands. The same hands that went to touch her again - as if he couldn’t help it - fitting on her face, his head lifting up to hers, intent visible in his features-

She pulled them back again, forcing them above his head this time, his back down to the bed – a hand immediately stroking down his arm to his collarbone and pressing.

She couldn’t let herself think about this, about what was about to happen… otherwise it wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

And it had to.

 _Had_ to.

It was either this, or she’d smack him. And she couldn’t smack him.

But she _could_ fuck him.

Deep down, she wanted him to feel her. Or, more precisely, to simply feel something that didn’t injure him. To experience pleasure, however which way it might lose to his past lovers, at least – for a moment – he’d be freed for a while.

So would _she_.

Realising this, she took a breath… and straightened; both hands sliding to meet in his chest. Her message clear.

Don’t move. Don’t touch me.

Just in case he didn’t get the memo, her nails dug into his chest.

His breath caught, his eyes closing briefly before opening and flaring into hers. Stunned.

 _Oh_.

He liked that.

She’d also surprised the hell out of him. Like, _Felicity?_

He stared up at her. And like her he was afraid to move forwards into the unknown. Like her, he wanted to. Unlike her, he knew exactly where he wanted to start. She could tell by how his fingers fisted towards the palms of his hands to prevent himself from touching her, how he was trembling... how the budge at his crotch _grew_ when she very subtly, slowly, undulated her bottom over it.

He hissed, his breath shaking out of him…

But he was obeying her, just as she knew he would.

Just as she knew he respected her.

That he would basically do whatever she asked… just because she had.

And she didn’t want that.

But… she also didn’t want him to touch her. And she was in too deep to stop. All she could see was him.

“You must be very uncomfortable like that.” She breathed. “Leather pants,” he shuddered – maybe at her voice, maybe at how she continued to ground down on him, maybe at the way her backside encouraged what promised to be the erection of the century – watching her like she was the answer to every question he’d ever asked, “tight and chafing.” She pressed her lips together and moved further down him, gasping.

God, he felt incredible.

And she heard him, “ _Felicity_.” Dying.

Because of her.

And that was it; she was gone.

Tearing away, she flung herself off him; grabbing at the buttons to her jeans and undoing them – the zipper – and hearing a rustle from the bed, lifting her head as she moved and freezing just in time to see his hands delve down to the leather… and seeing his legs on the bed with his calves hanging off sent a beat – a thrill – right through her.

Digging his heels into the mattress, he forced his pants over his hips, crotch and thighs and she immediately went to help him; wrenching them off with his boots before standing. Before pulling down her own jeans.

A sound left him – one choked and unbelievably arousing – when he realised she’d taken her underwear with them.

She met his eyes and there was a moment between them where everything just zinged. It – desire, all of it – shot deep, a violent twist deep in the belly.

Taking a breath, without further ado, her hands moved behind her and she was unclipping her bra and tossing it aside.

His eyes didn’t leave hers and for some reason, she took it as the highest compliment.

And he was holding his breath because she could tell he wanted to touch her. He was a man after a hard day and she a woman after one equally as crappy. They were naked. They were alone. Of _course_ he wanted to touch her.

His eyes screamed at her to let him, _please_ , as his hands gripped into the duvet.

Staring at him, she shook her head. _No_.

He swallowed.

Then nodded.

He’d do everything she asked. Respect.

…Trust.

That wasn’t something she could touch just then. She didn’t want it to be about…

She moved forwards and he moved back with her; his hands reaching back and wrapping themselves around the bedframe behind him.

And, because she had all the time in the world, Felicity looked at him. Gloriously naked. On _her_ bed. He didn’t seem to mind the exposure, though he had nothing to be ashamed over. And his eyes never left hers.

Her eyes drifted to his cock, which had to be aching and _primed_ and - by size alone - was almost intimidating just to look at. Normally, it might be to her.

But right then, it looked like dinner.

 _No time_. She needed something quite different.

Diving onto the bed – onto him – her mouth found his again and he was right there with her: all teeth and moist breath and starving for it as her hands moved over his straining muscles and it was a shock of excitement in her. One sharp enough to burn. She moaned with it, her hands diving down for him-

He grunted into her mouth; the muscles at his stomach rippling; the V of his hips velvet over steel.

She didn’t stop.

Straddling him, legs shifting - his knee pushing upwards and widening her - they rocked into each other as if they’d done it a thousand times before. Moving him in place, lifting her arms to slide them up and around his head, she deepened the kiss; pressing herself down on him. She needed them together, needed her chest against his. Covering him completely. Feeling each breath of his against her. Loving the way his lips chased hers the moment she moved back – deliberately torturing him.

She lifted her hips up when he came back for more.

And then-

“…Ah.”

Ripping away from her, mouth open, eyes locked onto her own - as if nothing could interfere just then - he rested his head on the pillow and just… felt.

Gaze heating, she started to move, moving over him and flexing. Grinding.

Gripping tight.

Brow knotted - teeth grit - he gasped, his hips rotating with hers and thrusting into her in a deep pulsing motion and… _oh_.

Fuck.

It had been a long time. Too long.

A low moan left her and she didn’t care; feeling him inside her, so sure he might be hitting her cervix because the man was gifted generously, she did. Not. care.

And she heard his sigh, figuring that they were both so very ready to get to the threshold because, yes; this was fucking. Not making love. Not anything that would last long; he’d be gone soon and that was… was…

Painful.

She felt it wave through her, the shame - the pain of what might happen afterwards - and it almost made her break. Feeling ten different kinds of defenceless sat astride him - riding him slow and deep - her hands moved to her face, covering it so he couldn’t see how hard she was trying not to cry.

He stopped moving under her.

“ _Please_.” Gutted, gruff and half-gone, whatever he was begging for his voice alone made every internal muscle of hers wrapped so tightly around him - it had indeed been a while - clench and he was helpless against it. “Nmh.” A gasp choked out of him because she hadn’t stopped moving; the needs of her body warring with the emotions inside her she was trying to keep at bay. “Felicity, I-” Another grunt, “I need touch you.”

She knew he wouldn’t until she said he could and until she did… he’d suffer.

Behind her hands, she bit her lip. Using her abdominals, tightening her thighs around his hips, making him feel her - every bit of her - she forced him to continue. To push into her. To give himself to it and keep burying himself inside her.

He bit out, “okay,” pushing up, into her and by the way his mouth opened again, his breaths shallow with each little sound that left him, she figured she’d done it right so she dragged her hand away from her face, shoving them into her hair.

Letting her head tilt back, moaning lightly, she trailed her fingers down her neck… to her shoulders… then to her breasts…

Cupping them both and imagining his hands on them.

“ _God_.”

She smiled as he cursed - breathless - near laughing as pleasure swam through her.

Knees digging in, she rode him harder, but still not fast and he joined her; watching her every move as her hand came back down and her eyes met his.

As she joined him again; as her lips fastened to his, her breaths escaping onto his mouth.

His thrusts tightened, as did his mouth and, so lost in the feel of him, her hands slid up to his wrists – to his hands – lacing his fingers with her own.

Holding his hands.

Biting his lip, flexing her hips to roll into his over and over and over again, she eventually dug her knees into the mattress, pulling him tight and-

It racked through her and she whimpered against him. “Oliver.”

His hands pushed up against her own and something about that, about the way he was still holding himself in check even though his muscles were shaking with restraint, even though he obviously wanted to touch her, made the pleasure spike up before shooting down. Fast. Rolling into internal muscles and twisting-

She cried out - her eyes closed, lost to it - and something about it made him snap.

The entirety of him reared up from the bed, taking her with him. Hands slipping from under her own, his fingers immediately dug into her hips, pulling her in towards his as though that would somehow bring them closer, as he buried himself to the hilt. Mouth kissing the life out of her - her brain had frozen along with her will to push him back down - fingers stretched out and spanning her spine, his palms slid up, up her back and a flash of warmth followed their wake. He felt so good against her and this was it; the ‘why’ of her not wanting him to touch her.

Tongue devouring her mouth, she felt the cords in his neck strain under her hands - _when did they get there_ \- and his jaw tighten as she arched into him. Then his pace quickened. Her fingers moved down, digging into his shoulders.

Then he began to royally fuck her brain's out.

The sound that left her was inhuman - her insides spasming - but so were the breaths that left him that fanned against her face. A face that was reddening, a body that was starting to burn. To sweat. She shifted, lifting herself - his mouth opened, _wait_ \- for her legs to lock around his back before slamming back down and _god;_  his eyes closed with that, lips seeking her and she held on tight, loosing herself around him-

His hands were sinfully good at finding all her weak spots.

“Don’t- _ah_.” She tried to speak, she really did, to stem the rising tide, but she couldn’t form more than the single syllable.

And his mouth stopped her anyway.

One hand moved into her hair and gripped tight air, the other moved solid and all-encompassing around her waist, moving with her, lifting her just as he put all his strength into his thighs and-

“Oh!”

She felt that.

Eyes open, wrecked for him and letting him see it - she didn’t have a choice - in the furrow of her brow and the way she had to let her forehead rest against his because the feel of his body moving up and down with her own was a fantasy she never thought she could have.

And he held her eyes, as if he wasn’t about to lose them, or her, to the storm.

Arms wrapping around his neck, she held on; yanking his face close again, feeling his lips trace over her own without kissing her - neither could really breathe anymore; kissing was impossible - as it raced up her spine, hearing herself moan and gasp and pretty much begin to break into tiny little pieces.

This wasn’t the simple thing she’d thought it would be.

He kept at it; kept fucking upwards, hard. Grunting now, as he did. His eyes fixed on her own, gradually losing all focus; pupils covering the entirety if his iris - lost to this as she was - his mouth open without making a sound and she felt his legs lift then and knew that he was placing his feet on the bed and using them for extra leverage and - as her eyes rolled back, lids closing - she felt it right there, chasing back down her spine.

Her toes curled.

He groaned but didn’t stop, nor speed up as each flex of his hips gradually became a helpless jerk: needing it, searching forever for that deep, sweet spot. His insane stamina giving him permission to try. For a way to sink in higher and harder each time… it built.

And it built.

Higher.

And-

She tightened around him, her body locking in place and he shouted out; an indescribable thing she couldn’t recognise. Or hear.

She was gone.

Not enough breath to even moan.

Totally blitzed out.

Somewhere in the fog, she felt his face in her neck. His arms shaking yet still holding her up, holding her close. Hot gasps against the moist skin of her throat. His chests pushing harsh and fast against her breasts.

And when she finally returned… she felt no anxiety. Nothing save the warmth of him, the completeness of them and the fullness of him inside her.

And a sadness.

"I didn’t want you to touch me,” she started after several minutes of staring at her bedroom wall, feeling sweat start to roll down her neck, her hands in his wonderfully thick hair and felt him still, “because I didn’t want that memory.” He’d stopped panting a while ago; favouring holding her to speaking, which wasn’t confusing at _all_. “To have a taste of… of this,” she swallowed, sounding dangerously close to _in love_ and wanting it and so _done_ that she didn’t care right now, “just once. And never again.” She shook her head against him. “It’s too much. And not fair.” She smiled and it was a shaky thing, feeling it tingle down to where they were connected so intimately and even that mocked her. The perfection of it. The intimacy she knew she’d forever miss. “I can only blame myself; I pretty much attacked you…”

“I didn’t stop you.” He whispered.

She jumped, not expecting the reply.

“R-right.”

“And who said we can’t?” Still less than a murmur, the words had his lips tracing a certain sensitive spot at her neck and she shuddered with it. “Why can’t we?”

“…Um.” She honestly couldn’t think of the answer to that just then.

Except-

“Well, we were arguing just before we, you know…” voice throaty and not deliberately suggestive but still succeeding in its sensuality, she felt him stir. As in, _stir_. “Oh whoa.” She breathed.

She felt him smile against her throat.

“This is the first time in 7 years where I haven’t felt completely by myself.”

His statement hit her ears but it took a while to process it.

_Oh Oliver._

Pulling back, his hands - perfectly skilled fingers, traced, teased - sought out parts of her he hadn’t touched yet. Head and eyes following his fingers as her arms slackened, naturally falling against his chest, his hands reached her collarbone. Her breasts.

He stroked a finger over one, his gaze soft. Loving.

Loving.

What was this?

Slowly - she watched with bated breath, feeling shy even after what they’d just done - he moved a little, his upper body leaning over her and dragged - so lightly he wouldn’t hurt a butterfly - his teeth over the supple, smoothness there.

Fingers digging into him, she let out a shaky breath when he looked at her again; his nose an inch away from her own. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” He uttered honestly as his hands slid up and curved over her cheeks: his arms against her chest this time. “Being here, with you… it’s like you pushed away the dark. Filled me with light.” He shook his head. “After today, this week… I didn’t think I could have something like this.”

She swallowed: he couldn’t look at her like that. Adoringly. And neither of them should be running away from their problems. They were friends first; they needed to talk.

But the day had been a long, hard one. Since they’d already broken their second major rule – shattered beyond repair – she figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a little more before it all ended… right?

He saw it in her face, what she wanted.

And he bent towards her again, bringing her close with his hands; his lips brushing over her own – the kiss they should have had first – before, so swiftly she was flattered, his hands dropped down, smoothing down her thighs and kneading the skin there.

Cupping under them, he was lifting them both, “oh!”

Blinking at him, her back on the mattress instead, he - so slowly, a thrill trespassed over her - he grasped her hands in his, straddled over her - and in the buff the sight was… yeah - and brought them to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.

Looking at her in the eye as he did.

Then, he moved them over her head and manoeuvred them to wrap around the bedpost before his hands slipped _down_ …

 

* * *

 

 

Mouth open, unable to breathe - his hand cupping her jaw - his finger pressed down on her tongue and she sucked it in, relishing the moan that ripped from him.

Nearly there now.

Steady and strong, each thrust so tight into her it kept her head on the pillow and his other hand - skilled fingers and one very sure thumb pressing into the space between her thigh and where he was buried deep - keeping her legs wide. The burn of him there invading her senses.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

Pounding.

Together.

One leg thrown over his thigh, he pushed the other up high against his chest before his knees and toes dug into the mattress and-

“ _Oh_.”

Not talking was doing them wonders.

 

* * *

 

 

Hand curling over her jaw, his thumb brushing over her swollen lips, he felt her tongue touch the tip of it.

It went straight to his crotch, his cock already buried inside her.

How many times had it been?

He’d lost count in the light of day. So had she. But it was as if, the moment they’d started again, stopping had been impossible.

Her head fell back, onto his shoulder as he moved and the feel of her hair cascading down her back was unreal. A gift.

One arm tight around her chest, his free hand on her hip – it drifted down, honing in and he felt himself tense further when he hit home and heard her whimper.

It was fast this time.

They decided on a shower, to wash the dirt, the grime and general horror of the last 24 hours away. But the moment he’d seen her standing there, naked and reaching for the lotion to smooth down the red marks littering her form - marks he’d made as he’d moved inside her - and it had been impossible _not_ to.

Shaking with each thrust, he felt her take his thumb in her mouth and hissed, “Christ.” She was spectacular.

She was everything.

Didn’t she know that?

…No, because he hadn’t been obvious.

With how hard he was driving in, he was surprised she hadn’t fallen over his arm. But she held there, steady - on her tip toes, which was a turn on all on its own - she angled her hips back into his, her body bending over, “ _Felicity_ ,” her hands bracing against the sink in front of her just… taking him.

Bending his knees, he powered up and in; pulling on her hips as he did, making sure to keep his hand right where she needed him. He hoped she never stopped needing him.

She came up off the floor with his thrust, a harsh gasp and choked yell leaving her and it pretty much made his year.

Until her hand moved fast, off the sink, reached behind them both and grasped his ass… asking for deeper. For more. For him, as she stood straight once more, writhing against his body, her other hand wrapping around his head behind her and into his hair-

“ _Fuck_ -”

Her mouth on his cut him off.

He already knew he loved her.

Now, she’d ruined him for anyone else.

For the first time in his life, something so earth moving didn’t frighten him…

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, they _did_ talk.

And she was happy with the result.

It wasn’t until afterwards when they were in the shower that she understood what he’d been trying to tell her.

When he’d gently tugged her in there - they were both completely spent - she’d been sleepy and lightly grumbling, briefly witnessing how his eyes turned tender with an emotion she would _not_ touch. Yet. _Maybe_. Soon?

But then he’d pulled her close with a soft expression and softer hands, his arms securing her like one would a baby to his very naked self as the water warmed up… and let her rest her cheek on his wonderfully wonderful pectoral.

His palm cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the apple.

And… they stayed like that for a while. A long while. Under the stream.

No man had ever held her like that.

Just before her skin began to prune, he started to talk. Murmur really.

_“There’s something inside me. It hurts the people I care about. My first instinct is to push them away from it. But you bulldozed right on in and made me look at myself. I won’t blame you if you want no more of… of this. Of me. Of  the possibility of us-”_

And yep, his voice had shaken there, which told her everything-

 _“But if you do… I can’t promise I won’t mess up. Or that I won’t hurt you. But I_ can _promise to love you, always.”_

…Love her.

Always.

He'd said things in her arms - and her in his - as they'd moved together but... but she'd thought it had been in the moment.

So lax in his arms – so safe – her arms had shifted; roving around, her hands tracing his wet back before holding him as close as he was her and burying her face in his chest because _oh holy frack_.

 _“I’ve loved you for a while.”_ He informed her.

 _“I’m sure sex had nothing to do with it,”_ she’d muttered; trying for humour in a bid not to cry and wincing when it sounded… well, bad.

But he didn’t seem to feel that way.

 _“I loved you before the sex.”_ And sex on Oliver’s lips had a surprising thimble of adrenaline coarsing through her. _“The sex was good.”_

She’d nuzzled him. “ _Very good.”_

And he’d held her closer, his lips brushing over her wet hair. “ _Mh hm. So is this… I want this Felicity. I won’t take back what I’ve said. Or that I love you. But if you want me to go… I will.”_

There was no hesitation in her answer. “ _I don’t want you to go.”_

She heard his heart tumble under her ear. _“…Then I won’t.”_

_“Stay.”_

_“Ok.”_

_“About the trust thing…”_

_“I promise you, I-”_

_“I get it. I don’t like it. It hurt me. But you… you pick the hardest road.”_ Her chin on his chest, she’d looked up into his gaze. _“Sometimes, I don’t think you even see that. That you choose to be punished.”_

He’d known the backlash might ruin their relationship. In pushing her away metaphorically, he’d almost done it literally. But, ironically, it had been to protect her. Then it had been a last resort. It was time for him - for them - to understand why.

He’d been silent for a while after that; not in any bad way. Just… thoughtful.

Then he’d washed his hair, which had been nice.

Then they’d made out, which had been all sorts of delicious; lazy smooching in the shower, before they’d tumbled – partially damp – towards the bed.

“Stay.” She repeated, but didn’t ask.

It was his choice, but there shouldn’t be a question of whether he could.

His vulnerable, incredibly pleased – slightly boyish – gratitude, the ‘ _can I really_ ’, turned her into a puddle of goo.

And though the sex had more than made up for her dry spell, having Oliver hold her close - of his own free will; _he liked to cuddle, who knew_ \-  naked, topped the orgasms she’d lost track off.

 

* * *

 

 

The knock on the door became a pounding after the long minute it had taken her to pull on some panties before Oliver ‘don’t do that, I’ll get the door’ Queen beat her to the punch by appearing in front of it with nothing but a towel covering his extra special parts.

His _very_ extra special parts.

Seriously, she was stunned they were even walking.

“It’s probably just the delivery.” She muttered against his lips, slipping out of bed with a shirt before running to the door when the knocks literally shook the door off its hinges.

Almost like Oliver had done to her body in the bathroom-

 _Nope. Not now_. Though the blinding happiness she was sure was in her face told the story.

She reached for the handle and pulled it open, her wallet in hand. “I’m so-”

John, Sara, Roy and laurel stood wearing identical expressions of confused disbelief on their faces. More precisely, the moment Roy saw her pant-less legs, his gaze lifted to the ceiling. Sara’s brows were arched high, Dig had his head tilted and Laurel was frowning at her hair…

Her sex hair.

_Uh-_

“Hey,” Oliver’s hushed - deeply playful – voice came from behind the door as he closed in on her, “did you get-”

The door opened further under his hand before she could pull her jaw off the floor and she watched her friends freeze as Oliver, still only in a towel, was revealed like, ‘ta da’.

There was approximately ten seconds of silence before-

“Hey guys.” Oliver said, smiling and – to his credit – only slightly put on the spot.

As if, he was comfortable where he was and everyone else was being weird.

She’d feel super good about that, right about the time Diggle saw fit to stop gaping… or when Sara dropped the knowing grin on her face.

When she didn’t hear Roy snort and Laurel… when Laurel didn’t look like she’d walked into an alternate universe where absolutely nothing made sense.

“Do you guys mind?” Oliver asked, _gently_. “We’re waiting for a delivery.” His hand tapped his 8-pack and even after the many rounds of sex, Felicity was still entranced by it. “Famished.”

Because of all the sex.

She cleared her throat as Oliver pretty much covered the entirety of her back with his front.

Dig jumped. “U-uh, yeah.” He nodded like, _smooth_. “We just- we hadn’t heard from you. Either of you.” His eyes shot to Oliver who - when she glanced up - pressed his lips together. _This isn't funny, dammit_. “It’s been 2 days and we didn’t know where you’d gone after Waller spoke to you.”

That threw her. Two days. She hadn’t, _er_ , noticed the passage of time.

And Waller: a conversation he’d told her all about with his head on her chest after a brief nap. Emphasis on brief.

She felt Oliver shrug. _Shrug_. “I came here.” OBVIOUSLY. “And we’re ok.”

“Right.” Deeply uncomfortable, John looked from Oliver to her and back again. “Need anything?”

Huh?

“Nah. Got it covered.”

 _Nu uh_. “Clothes.” Felicity pretend-coughed out and Oliver, sheepishly nodded with her.

“Clothes, right. I hadn’t thought-”

“I’ll sort that out.” Obviously wanting to get out of there, Diggle started hustling everyone down the hall. “See you both tomorrow?”

“Or the day after.” Oliver added, calm as you please.

Her mouth was still open, _oh_ , when he closed the door to Sara’s dirty laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

“What makes you happy?”

Head in his hand, leaning over her on one elbow, his eyes _flickered_ over her face, warm. “You.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but what’ll make you happy right now?” Like breakfast. Or-

“You.” He repeated, his fingers touching under her chin… just because he could.

She laughed, shaking her head. “There must be something you want.”

Eyes very much on hers, he kissed her fingers, mouthing _‘you’_.

Pretending not to feel that everywhere – he knew she did – Felicity curled into him under the covers. “What about breakfast?”

There was _nothing_ saint-like in the smirk that grew on his face. It screamed ‘sex’ and ‘we’re going to be late for the team Arrow meeting’ and ‘don’t mind if I do’.

 _Count me in_.


End file.
